


With a Mouthful of Thorns

by grumpybell



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Magic, Romance, Royalty, wolf!bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 19:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13577013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpybell/pseuds/grumpybell
Summary: They all know Bellamy Blake is something else, or part something else, even if no one ever says it. It's in the way his eyes are just a little too deep, his cheekbones a little too sharp, everything about him a little bit too perfect. Everyone growing up in Arkadia knows about the Folk. They're used to recognizing them, even in their glamours, and steering clear. Bellamy isn't one. But he's half, and it's enough to make people equal parts fascinated and wary. It's enough make him something of a spectacle.Of course, for most of Clarke's life, he's been the sort of spectacle that involves people daring each other to try to get him to tell lies (Clarke doesn't know if, like the full blooded fae, he can't or if he just likes to keep people guessing) or do small magic (he never does) when they've had a little too much to drink at parties. Most of the time, the people of Arkadia forget that Bellamy's any different from the rest of them. Until something goes wrong, and then he draws everyone's suspicious gaze. It's the way of the world, to look to place the blame in someone who is other in some way. Bellamy Blake, with his eyes that look right into you, that know you, he's other in a way that scares people.





	With a Mouthful of Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> **very loosely inspired by The Darkest Part of the Forest by Holly Black 
> 
> I'm honestly not sure how I always end up writing these niche fics, but here we are again. hope you enjoy!

 

If there's one thing Clarke knows, it's that there are some places in the world that never really seem to settle. She's lived her whole life in Arkadia and it still feels restless to her, brimming with an unrestrained energy. It's not something that's lost on the people who visit. They can never pinpoint it, but they feel it, and it infects them, makes them nervous and a little wild. It's not a mystery to Clarke what makes it that way. That's how she imagines any town bordering fae territory is. In Arkadia, they call them the Folk, and in a lot of the United States they're known as fairies, but Clarke's dad tells her his family stories that go all the way back to the founding of Arkadia in the early 1800s, and he calls them by their chosen name, fae. So Clarke does too.

Being a Griffin is a bit like being royalty in Arkadia. Clarke's four times great grandfather had been the one to broker the deal for the land with the fae. Making a deal with them is dangerous, usually foolish, and there are all sorts of tall tales about what'd he'd had to do in return, but not even Clarke's father had known the truth of it. The only thing everyone can agree on is that Arkadia exists thanks to Will Griffin.

Clarke's status as a Griffin doesn't outwardly affect her life much. Mostly, she gets quiet nods from the locals, an acknowledgement that she's an Original. She belongs here. More than anyone. Sometimes, on the local Founder's Day, she finds gifts on her doorstep or under her window, flower crowns and sweet cakes, which she doesn't eat. They aren't from the fae. She know this because if the fae were ever to leave her gifts, which she doubts, they would do it on a solstice, not Founder's Day and she'd probably wake up with knots tied in her hair and thorns under her pillow. The gifts are imitations of what the townsfolk imagine the fae might leave, an acknowledgement that the town exists because of her family. To be honest, Clarke's “Griffin status” doesn't control her life half as much as her mother's money.

Clarke's mother, Abby, didn't grow up in Arkadia. Far from it. She'd come from a wealthy family in New England. She'd grown up with crisp, fall afternoons and a long line of Ivy League graduates. She'd earned a medical degree from Harvard at a family record age of 23. And somehow, Clarke has never known how, she'd ended up in Arkadia, a backwater southern town with a population of just under 2,000. She'd married Jake Griffin and she hadn't left since, not even to visit her parents back in Massachusetts. Not even after Jake had died in a car accident the year before and her parents had offered Clarke and Abby a place to stay to take their mind off things.

Clarke sometimes thinks she should be more interested in knowing what happened to make her mother stay, but Arkadia is the sort of place where people keep secrets. You don't last if you can't keep your mouth shut. The fae don't like humans who get too curious. There's no proof the strange things that happen to people who get too nosy and ask too many questions is the fae. But Clarke knows.

It's not that Clarke hates Arkadia. She doesn't. It's home and she thinks it probably always will be. There's something about the area, particularly once you get out of the city, the woods and the air and it's just... old. She can feel it in her bones, that this is an ancient place and it resonates deep inside her. But she still wants to go somewhere else. Not forever. Maybe not even for long. She just... She's never left Arkadia. Not unless she counts a school weekend trip to the closest city with an art museum. People from Arkadia just _don't leave_.

As exciting as living on the edge of fae territory sounds, not much more than a few mysterious minor accidents and a slew of cruel fae pranks ever happen. At least, not until Clarke's only three and half months from getting to go to college _far away_ and little Holly Matthews disappears without a trace, but with wildflowers suddenly blooming in the cracks of her bedroom floorboards overnight, and everyone in Arkadia finds a way to blame Bellamy Blake for it.

They all know Bellamy Blake is something else, or _part_ something else, even if no one ever says it. It's in the way his eyes are just a little too deep, his cheekbones a little too sharp, everything about him a little bit too perfect. Everyone growing up in Arkadia knows about the Folk. They're used to recognizing them, even in their glamours, and steering clear. Bellamy isn't one. But he's half, and it's enough to make people equal parts fascinated and wary. It's enough make him something of a spectacle.

Of course, for most of Clarke's life, he's been the sort of spectacle that involves people daring each other to try to get him to tell lies (Clarke doesn't know if, like the full blooded fae, he _can't_ or if he just likes to keep people guessing) or do small magic (he never does) when they've had a little too much to drink at parties. Most of the time, the people of Arkadia forget that Bellamy's any different from the rest of them. Until something goes wrong, and then he draws everyone's suspicious gaze. It's the way of the world, to look to place the blame in someone who is _other_ in some way. Bellamy Blake, with his eyes that look right into you, that _know_ you, he's other in a way that scares people.

* * *

 

She learns about Holly Matthew's disappearance just like all of her classmates, during morning announcements during the second to last week of school her senior year. It's that time of year, where the students are simultaneously restless, ready for summer, and lazy from the oppressive heavy heat. The first clue that something's wrong is the fact that it's Principal Jaha whose voice comes over the loudspeaker. Usually the announcements are left for one of the assistant principals.

The second is the fact that Roma Matthews is crying at her desk, three rows back from Clarke. Jaha's announcement is short and to the point- seven year old Holly Matthews has been missing since early this morning. If anyone has any information, they should come to the office and report it. In the back of the classroom, Roma's friends have huddled together, murmuring quietly to her. All Clarke catches is Roma's “I just didn't want to sit at home.”

Clarke doesn't know Holly, but she's had a few classes with Roma, who is popular and pretty and was Homecoming Queen last year. Even though it's a small town, Clarke doesn't really know Roma well enough to form an opinion on her. She's concerned for Holly the way everyone seems to be, in a genuine, yet rather helpless way. She doesn't know anything useful, and the truth is, if Holly's missing, it likely has nothing to do with anyone who lives in town.

Her lack of opinion of Roma Matthews is smashed just after third period, when Clarke turns the corner on her way to English and finds a crowd of people with Roma and Bellamy Blake at the center. Bellamy is sitting on the floor, and his lip is bleeding.

“-I know you know, asshole!” Roma's crying again, but she looks more furious than sad.

“If I could help you, Roma, I would, but I don't know anything about what's happened to Holly.” Bellamy's voice is calm, but tired. He makes no move to get up from the floor. Clarke knows Bellamy could defend himself, physically anyway, if he wanted, but he makes no attempt to dodge the kick Roma aims his way. It connects with his thigh with a dull thud, and Clarke's pushing forward before she has a chance to think about it.

“Leave him alone!”

Roma's head jerks up, and she sneers at Clarke through her tears. “Figures a Griffin would defend him. Everyone knows your family is the biggest Folk lovers of them all.You think you're town royalty, don't you Princess? Well, not all of us care who your great whatever grandfather is. This is about Holly.” She glares down at Bellamy. “So go ahead and defend him, it won't do you any good. You think this is gonna get you in his pants?”

And there it is, Clarke suspects, the real reason Roma's taking her grief out on Bellamy, rather than someone else. Or, at least, a big part of it. Everyone had seen Roma very publicly ask Bellamy out, and everyone had seen him reject her, kindly, but a rejection all the same. As far as Clarke's aware, Bellamy doesn't date. Or... at least not humans. He doesn't even really have friends. Maybe the Sheriff's son, Miller, but even that's questionable.

“I _think_ that you're either a bigot, or you're using this as an excuse to take you anger out on Bellamy for another reason entirely.”

Roma catches her meaning and starts toward Clarke furiously. But she never makes it, for _now_ Bellamy moves, shooting to his feet and putting himself between them.

“I hope they find Holly, Roma. I really do, but I can't help you. And I think it's time for this conversation to be over.”

“You know something,” Roma accuses, her attention back on Bellamy. “I _know_ you do. Everyone knows you're in with the Folk. Everyone knows what your father was. You disappear every summer. You _have_ to know something.” She sounds desperate by the end, rather than angry.

“I'm sorry,” Bellamys says firmly. “I can't help you.”

Roma's anger crumbles, and she shoves past Bellamy, then Clarke, and Clarke can hear her crying as she goes. The crowd disperses with Roma's exit, the excitement over. A few people leave with lingering glares directed at Bellamy. He doesn't seem to be paying attention. Instead, he's dabbing at his lip, smearing blood on his hand.

Roma wasn't wrong about Bellamy. He does always disappear every summer, and Clarke had always assumed he was with his father, whoever, whatever, he was, but she'd never thought much about what sort of information that would make Bellamy privy to. She believes he was telling the truth, that he'd help Roma if he could, but she wishes she could be sure. She hates that she even questions it.

He seems to sense that she's still standing there, because he lifts his eyes to meet hers with a small, wry smile. His eyes are so deep; Clarke feels see through.

“Thanks.” Bellamy's got a quiet presence, but it radiates confidence.

“She shouldn't have taken it out on you.”

He shrugs. “I'm not surprised. Anyway, I should go take care of-” he gestures at his split lip. “See you around, Princess.” He doesn't say it with the edge that Roma had, but it still stings.

It's only after he's disappeared out of the doors at the end of the hall that Clarke notices the paper on the floor. It's small, just a scrap, but she picks it up anyway. The writing on it is in a heavy ink, and the handwriting is cramped. It's some sort of letter, starts-

_Faolan,_

But it's not a language Clarke recognizes. Or rather, she recognizes it, but only as something that isn't human. This is fae writing, which means this paper probably belongs to Bellamy Blake. Clarke can't quite convince herself that she's irritated that she'll have to track him down to give it back.

* * *

 

She doesn't see Bellamy at school again that day, so instead of her normal walk home, she takes a left on Peach Street toward Bellamy's house. She's never actually been to the Blake house, but she knows which one it is- everyone does. It's got butter yellow paint, a sagging front porch, and an impressive collection of wind chimes hanging from every tree.

The wood of the steps creaks ominously under Clarke's weight, as she climbs them, but she persists, across the dilapidated porch, to knock on the front door.

Aurora Blake answers. She's young, for having a son Bellamy's age, and pretty, but a bit too thin in a way that makes her seem bordering on frail, and the smile she gives Clarke is a little too brittle.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi,” Clarke starts, feeling self conscious. “Um. I'm looking for Bellamy? He dropped some papers at school today and I just wanted to return them.”

“Oh.” Aurora's smile warms slightly. “He's in his room. Upstairs, first door on the left.” And she stands back to let Clarke into the house.

“Thanks,” Clarke says, but Aurora's already walking away. Luckily, the stairs are easy to find, visible from the doorway, and Clarke climbs them, feeling like an intruder. She knocks tentatively on the closed door, first on the left.

“Come in?” Bellamy's voice is confused.

Clarke opens the door to reveal a small room, very tidy, and very simple. A desk, a bookcase, and a bed, on which Bellamy is sitting, looking at her in surprise.

“Hi?” He says. “I knew it wasn't Mom or O, because they never knock, but I wasn't expecting you.”

Clarke takes a step into the room and fishes the piece of paper out of her pocket. “You dropped this. In the hall.”

Surprise flickers across Bellamy's face, but he reaches out and takes the paper from her. His fingers brush hers, and Clarke bites her lip, suddenly aware of how pretty he really is, and how alone they are. Not that she thinks anything is going to happen- he just has such lovely eyes.

Bellamy doesn't open the paper; it's clear he already knows exactly what it is.

“Did you read it?” he asks.

“I tried.”

Bellamy laughs, bright, and unexpected, if his own reaction is anything to go by. “I didn't expect you to admit it.”

Clarke shrugs. And... She figures she might as well go for it. “What is it?”

Bellamy examines her for a long moment. “A summons to court. Which I'm going to ignore.” He says it so casually that Clarke can almost forget the fact that he means the fae courts. He's been summoned to the royal courts- and he's refusing to go.

“Why not?”

“Everything at court is just going to be different people arguing about what most likely happened to the girl. They're very good at talk, but I think it more pressing to take action.”

“Action? What sort of action? Do you know what happened to Holly?” Clarke doesn't mean to accost him with questions that sound more like accusations, but she can't help it. Her curiosity is piqued, and Bellamy is the most talkative she's ever seen him. At her words, however, his eyes narrow.

“You think I lied to Roma? That I had something to do with it?”

“No.” She doesn't. But she thinks he knows more than he's telling. Or at least knows how to find out.

“Roma said flowers were blooming in the cracks of the floorboards in her little sister's bedroom. That's fae magic. Which means it was fae that took her. The thing about magic is that it always leaves traces.” Bellamy's eyes have gone distant. “And someone should follow those traces before they're gone.”

“So where-”

Bellamy's door bangs open. Clarke hadn't even realized she closed it behind her. She startles, and turns to face the source of the noise.

It's a girl, no older than ten, with long dark hair and light eyes. She's scowling tremendously.

“Bell, Mom won't let me go to Sarah's again.” The girl slides right past Clarke like she isn't even there and flops down next to Bellamy on his bed dramatically.

“It's a school night, Octavia.” Clarke had forgotten all about the second Blake child, mostly because Octavia is entirely human, and not subject to the amount of gossip that surrounds Bellamy.

Octavia huffs, not appeased in slightest.

“And there's a missing girl,” Bellamy reminds her.

“So what?” Octavia sits up suddenly, eyes flashing. “It's not like the fae would ever mess with me. Not with you as my brother.”

Clarke wonders exactly what that means. Is it just that the fae won't mess with one of their own, even if it's only by extension? That doesn't seem right. Not to mention, Bellamy doesn't strike Clarke as a particularly ferocious or intimidating figure. He hadn't even raised a hand to defend himself against Roma. But then Clarke remembers the speed at which he'd put himself between her and Roma. There was a swift fearlessness in that action, so maybe there's more to Bellamy than meets the eye.

“If Mom wants you to stay in, then that's how it is, O. Even if you're safe, it's up to her, not me.”

Octavia lets out a frustrated sound somewhere between a scream and growl and then flings herself up and shoves past Clarke, slamming the door behind her when she leaves. The whole interaction hadn't taken more than a couple of minutes, but Bellamy looks tired, the same sort of bone deep exhaustion he'd shown briefly in the hallway, chin tilted downward as he takes slow, steady breaths.

“So,” Clarke says, straight to the point because it's worked with him before. “where do we go to look for traces?”

Bellamy looks up, surprised, but then a smile creeps its way across his face.

* * *

 

It turns out, they go a lot of rarely traveled places- back alleys, the abandoned bowling arena on the outskirts of town, a church that had burned down, and the parking lot of a closed hardware store.

“Is there any sort of reasoning behind this?” Clarke can't help but ask, as she kicks a piece of gravel around with her shoe, while Bellamy stands very still, his head tilted slightly to the side.

“You won't sense it, because you're human, but there are impressions here.” It strikes her then, by his very own words, that he's not human. Not even if his mother and sister are. He looks human, and sounds human, but he isn't. He's something else.

“What's it like? How do you sense it?”

“Here?” Bellamy asks. “I can smell it. Spells to draw a little girl away, strong enough stuff to leave a taste in the air. And look-” he nods to a patch of green, poking up through the asphalt. There's a single dandelion growing, nothing special.

“What?”

“It's not real, not in the way it would be if it had grown naturally.” He grins, pleased with himself, or pleased that he knows something she doesn't, Clarke's not quite sure.

“How do you know?”

“Fae magic is like the fae themselves- it can't lie.” Clarke thinks that's a bit of a bullshit answer, but it brings up something she's wanted to ask, something that everyone who knows Bellamy has wondered at some point.

“And you? Can you lie?”

Bellamy fixes her with a long, searching stare. “Almost. But no.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“Fae can't tell lies, full stop. I can tell lies if I can make myself believe them to be true, but it's not as simple as it sounds. I can't just tell myself it's true, I have to wholeheartedly believe it.”

Clarke considers that for a moment. It's a little like he's stuck in limbo. He's not truly fae, but he's not human either. “So what does that make you?”

Bellamy's grin is grim. “Hell if I know.” He turns, before she can say anything back, and nods, “This way.”

 

They end up at a pavilion in a park just barely within town borders, just as the sun is setting. There's a small crowd, filling it up, and at the center a man playing a hammered dulcimer with deft, quick movements. She and Bellamy hover on the edge of the crowd, and something about the song makes Clarke's hair stand on end, goosebumps breaking over her skin with a shiver. It's not like anything else she's ever heard.

Clarke steps backwards, hardly aware that she's leaning back against Bellamy.

“Is he Folk?” she breathes, that shiver seeming to go on.

“No.” Bellamy tucks her under his arm, casual, like they do it all the time. “But he learned from one.”

They're quiet, just listening, and Bellamy is warm against her side.

“If you wanted to hear fae music, you'd have to go deeper.”

“Deeper where?” Clarke asks, eyes still transfixed on the musician.

Bellamy's voice is distant when he answers. “Deeper into the world.”

She wants to ask, but the music has too much of her attention and she lets the mysterious words slide. If it's not magic, it's close, enchanting.

Next to her, Bellamy goes tense. It drags Clarke out of her trance. Without a word, he steps back from the crowd, pulling her gently with him, toward the edge of the wood. In the gloom of twilight, it takes her several moments to see what Bellamy is leading her toward, a small, slender figure waiting in the shadows. When they get closer, she's able to see it appears to be a boy, only with shiny iridescent wings and eyes that are solid black. His hands end in pointed fingernails that resemble claws. Clarke's seen fae before, but rarely up close. They don't tend to venture into town, and when they do, they're given a wide berth. Mostly she's seen them in the shadows, at the edges of the wood from her window late at night.

“What is it?” Bellamy asks, curt.

“You've been summoned to court,” the boy says, and Clarke sees his teeth are sharp, like razors. He hardly spares her a glance, like she's not important enough to acknowledge.

“I'm busy.”

“It is not a request,” comes the retort. The boy looks eager to see if Bellamy will try to refuse again, a twisted smile curling his lips. For his part, Bellamy is showing his weariness again, his brow creased in frustration.

“Tell the king I will attend to court after I've taken my companion home.”

“The king demands you come _now_.”

Bellamy's face grows dark. “And are _you_ going to try to make me?” This seems to be going nowhere fast, and Clarke sees an opportunity, one that she never expected to get in her life. She touches Bellamy's elbow, drawing his attention.

“Can I come?”

Bellamy blinks at her, before recovering. “It's not safe for humans.”

“I'm not afraid,” Clarke tells him, chin up, even though she is a little bit. But she's a human, so she can lie.

He studies her face, then glances to the boy, and back. “Brave princess,” he murmurs, quiet. And then he takes her hand. “Come on, then.”

 

They walk straight into the heart of the forest. Clarke can't see well in the swiftly descending darkness, but Bellamy never wavers, and she holds back the part of her that hates being led blindly and follows the direction his hand in hers pulls her. It seems much too fast, that they arrive at the lake, dark and foreboding before them.

Bellamy doesn't stop until they're standing just at the edge, toes nearly in the water. The boy with the sharp teeth had disappeared somewhere in the woods, and he doesn't appear now. Bellamy turns to her, that look of concern back.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes,” Clarke answers quickly, before she can second guess herself. His hand is a flash of skin in the moonlight as it comes up to rest against her cheek. And then, before she can question it, he presses the flat of his thumb into her forehead. It stings, for an instant, like being pricked with a pin, and then his hand is gone. Clarke doesn't feel any different.

“This won't be pleasant,” Bellamy warns, and then he wades into the water, tugging Clarke along with him. She follows, teeth chattering against the cold of the water, confused, but not sure she wants the answers to her questions. When they're shoulder deep, Bellamy ducks under the water.

It's dark, without the moonlight and the stars, and Clarke can barely see Bellamy right next to her. He continues on, Clarke in his wake, and after a few moments she becomes aware that she won't be able to hold her breath much longer. Panic sets in, and Clarke kicks her legs to propel herself to the surface, but before she can get far, Bellamy catches her around the waist and drags her back down.

She fights him. She realizes now, much too late, that she was wrong to trust him. She kicks and pushes, but it's useless. He holds her under the surface, and with her lungs screaming for air, she inhales and gets water. It burns fiercely, a terrible pain in her chest, and another wave of panic crashes into her. She's drowning.

But then, with another tortuously gasped breath of water, the pain starts to recede. She breathes out. In. She's not drowning. She's breathing under water, no, she's _breathing water_. It doesn't hurt any longer, and Bellamy's grip relaxes. She turns in his arms, and he taps his finger against her forehead. She understands then, he'd done this- given her magic.

He doesn't give her time to marvel at it, instead he's swimming on, deeper. She follows, her head swirling with possibilities. What else can Bellamy do? And if can't lie and can do magic, is he really truly fae after all? Or more fae than he is anything else?

She's still pondering all this when they tumble, suddenly, straight out of the water and onto a hard, stone floor. Bellamy appears unbothered, but Clarke spends several moments hacking up all the water in her lungs and the ability to breathe underwater loses a lot of its charm.

Bellamy's already standing by the time she gets her bearing. They're in a room, lit by torches mounted on the walls, all stone and no adornment. Behind them, the lake is an impenetrable looking wall, held back by some invisible barrier. In front of them, there's a single stone staircase, heading up. Clarke struggles into a sitting position and Bellamy holds out a hand to help her to her feet.

“Sorry, I know it sucks, but that was the fastest way to get here. Next time we'll take the stairs.” She can't tell if he's joking or not.

All Clarke can manage is an unamused glare in his direction, too busy shivering and dripping water onto the stone floor.

“Here,” Bellamy's tugging her along again, and the moment she sets foot on the staircase, the water is gone. Everything is dry, from her hair to her jeans.

“Can I still breathe under water?” Clarke asks, determined to sort all this out.

Bellamy looks back at her over his shoulder. “Maybe for a little while. What I did, it won't last. Only the king has enough magic to permanently make a spell like that stick. And you don't want the king's attention for long enough that he might perform magic on you.”

“Is he bad? The king?” Clarke is panting a little as they come to the top of the stairs and out into the hallway. Bellamy considers this question, as if he's never thought about it before.

“No.” So he must believe that to be true. “But he is ancient, and he does not understand mortals or what they might want for themselves. King Torin's idea of helpful or good might not line up with yours.”

Clarke's still pondering his words when the hallway turns a corner, and all of a sudden they're there, just at the mouth of the court. The room is expansive, and packed, filled with more creatures than Clarke could even begin to categorize, a wild mess of wings and claws and flowers and flashing eyes. There are long tables laden with all manner of food, delicate sugar blown butterflies, and thick stews of ominous colors. And wine. Everywhere Clarke looks, there's wine.

Across the room, Clarke can just make out a throne on a raised dais. It's too far and the light is too low to make out any details of the man sitting on it.

“Don't eat or drink anything,” Bellamy interrupts her thoughts. “Not everything will harm you, but none of it is good for you.” Clarke sends a wistful glance at the sugar spun butterflies, but nods all the same. She's not completely incompetent. Everyone's heard tales of what happens to humans who take fae food or drink, and it's never anything good.

Bellamy is scanning the crowd, clearly looking for someone, and Clarke can't help but wonder... “Is your father here?” She's not sure where she gets the courage to ask him that. Bellamy hasn't said a word about his father. Maybe he doesn't even know who he is.

“He's here.” But instead of happy, Bellamy's voice is resigned, tired. She doesn't understand why he always seems to lapse into such exhaustion. Is it that hard? Having a foot in both worlds?

“Come on, this way.” And Bellamy begins pushing his way through the crowd, guiding her by the hand. It's not as difficult as it seems it should be. The rest of the fae are getting out of his way, she realizes, and then wonders immediately why that is. Is Bellamy as much a mystery here as he is back home? That would be lonely, Clarke thinks, to not really fit anywhere.

They're nearly to the dais, and Clarke gets her first look of the king up close, when a short man with a long nose and sharp teeth steps into their way. He's got beady eyes, and stubby fingers with a glittering gold ring on each one, and even though she's never seen one up close, Clarke's fairly certain he's a goblin.

“If I could have just a moment of your time,” he begins, and though the words are polite, there's something nasty and greedy in his voice.

“I don't have time for this today, Grokt.”

“Now, now, not enough time for an old friend?”

Bellamy snorts. “We've never been friends.”

“No need to be so hostile, my prince.” The goblin is still talking, but Clarke doesn't hear what he says, instead her eyes have gone to Bellamy, to his face, and she can tell that he knows she's staring, even though he doesn't acknowledge the gaze, and then to the man on the throne.

It should have been obvious to her, Clarke thinks, the moment she got a glimpse of the king. He looks much like she expects Bellamy will in a couple of years, much too young to have a son Bellamy's age, but then, that's how the fae are, ageless. He has the same dark curls, the same build, but his skin is several shades darker, and he has a impressive set of antlers, ones that make a crown unnecessary. And when she takes a few steps closer she sees that his eyes are yellow and slitted like a cats. The fae hastening to get out of Bellamy's way takes on a new light in Clarke's eyes. Bellamy isn't an outsider; he's royalty.

“He has a tail, too.” Bellamy's voice startles her, and when she turns, he's following her gaze, face blank.

“Was that a joke?”

Bellamy grins, but it's sharp and unamused. “I cannot tell a lie,” he says in a sing song voice. There's something deeply bitter there, something she doesn't understand and thinks it better if she does not touch. She thinks she trusts him, but she hardly knows Bellamy. She doesn't know anything about him. It doesn't matter that she's been in school with him since they were just children, this is an entirely different person standing before her now.

“Do you think _he_ had something to do with Holly?” Clarke asks, it suddenly occurring to her that he's never said anything to the contrary. And here they are.

Bellamy snatches a goblet of wine off a passing tray and takes a long drink. “No. It wouldn't be a clever move on his part, agitating the humans, and the king is very clever. My father has seven sons, all of us relatively young, but his line is secure. He has no reason to intentionally destabilize that.”

Clarke blinks, surprised. Bellamy has six brothers? It's a lot to process.

“Iver is the oldest,” he nods his head to a man standing on the dais, at his father's side. Like the king, he has antlers, and yellow cat's eyes, but his hair is straighter and lighter in color, a chocolate brown, and his nose is sharp and pointed. “He expects to take over the throne one day.”

“And which are you?” Clarke asks, unable to help herself. She's been with a boy with a goldmine of information on the fae all day, and she's only just now realized it. She's barely scratched the surface.

“The third.” Bellamy is carefully studying the contents of his goblet. “Elden is the second, though he rarely makes appearances at court. He's absentminded, a scientist, always caught up in some experiment or other. And when he does show up he's frequently sporting burns or cuts or singed hair. Vali is a musician and an all around flirt. He has no interest in politics or power. Dane and Cowan are twins, sent to Aithne's court to be raised abroad and eventually take their places as diplomats, though Dane would make a better warrior. And Caelen-”

The king clears his throat, just a small sound, and the entire room descends into a swift, total silence. His eyes go to Bellamy, assessing, and then up and away.

“Now that all my councilors have deigned to join us,” his eyes cut back to Bellamy briefly, a warning, “it is time for the council to convene. I expect you in the war room imminently.” The king stands, and the hush in the room remains as he walks around behind the back of his throne and disappears.

“This way.” Bellamy takes off, though he's moving in the opposite direction of his father. Clarke trails, Bellamy's position as a prince and councilor giving them an unobstructed path through the room.

They reach a back wall, where a heavy wooden door is set, and Bellamy pulls it open, leading Clarke into another stone hallway, lit by torches. They pass doorways on both sides, until Bellamy comes to a halt and opens another door, set back a little into the wall.

It's not what Clarke was expecting. It's a bedroom, dominated by the bookshelves built into every wall, a fourposter bed, and a heavy writing desk. This, is most decidedly _not_ the war room. Clarke turns on Bellamy.

“What are we doing here?”

“It's not safe for you in court without me.”

“I thought we were going to the council meeting.”

“ _I'm_ going to the council meeting. You can't think I'm honestly allowed to bring you.” Bellamy shakes his head in frustration. “Look, this whole thing was a stupid idea, I don't know why I even-” he cuts himself off. Maybe because he doesn't want to finish that sentence. Maybe because he can't tell a lie. “I'll be back as soon as I can. Read a book or something. Take a nap. But don't leave the room. Fae like to play with humans, and they aren't always very nice.”

She wants to argue with him, but she's already learned that determined set of his jaw, and she knows it won't do any good. She has no leverage here. This is his home, and it's not worth risking her safety to wander without his permission.

Clarke flops onto the bed with a huff, reminding herself, a moment too late to stop herself, of Octavia back in the human world, but Bellamy doesn't seem to notice. He's already headed back for the door- and then Clarke is alone.

* * *

 

She doesn't mean to fall asleep, but after an hour of perusing Bellamy's bookshelves, and then going through every drawer in his desk, which does her little good considering everything he's written is in that strange fae script, she finds she's tired and there's nothing better to do than lie down for some time. The last thing she remembers, with her face buried in a pillow, is that this is the softest bed she's ever laid on.

She wakes up when Bellamy closes the door behind him. It's dark in the room, the candles having burned down to nothing, and she can only make out his figure in the gloom. His shoulders are drooping, weary, and Clarke scrambles to sit up and blink the sleep from her eyes.

“What happened?” she asks, eager.

“A lot of talk.” Bellamy sits down on the bed, kicking his feet up and leaning back against the headboard. At this angle she can see his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, and the gentle slope of his nose.

“And?”

“My father suspects Holly was taken by Aithne's court. She's been angling to destabilize my father's rule for years. The king has sent word to Dane and Cowan, to see if they can find anything out- part of their placement was always in case something like this happened. The fae have long memories. Aithne remembers when my father once warred with the humans. It left his forces weak. He nearly lost his throne.”

Clarke drinks in the information eagerly, a cluttered slew of questions springing to mind. “Who _is_ Aithne? How many courts are there? Does she really think taking Holly would be enough to make the humans come after the fae? Humans are scared of fae.”

Bellamy runs a hand through his already thoroughly tousled hair. “It won't stop with Holly,” he says, finally. “She'll keep taking until the humans are out for blood.” Clarke thinks of Roma's face, the fury and the fear. The people are fearful of the fae, but Bellamy's right, they won't stay docile forever.

“As for Aithne and the courts, there are twelve, here in America. Queen Aithne's is the closest to our territory. She's known for her beauty and kindness, which is saying something, considering she's a manipulative snake. She is,” Bellamy concedes, “beautiful. I've only visited her court a handful of times, but everything is beautiful there. They keep their nastiness well hidden.”

“And she took Holly,” Clarke confirms.

“Or so my father thinks.”

“So, what is he going to do about it?”

Bellamy's jaw tenses. She's hit a sore spot, apparently. “Wait. For a more opportune time.”

“ _What_?” Clarke stares at him in the dark. “That doesn't make any sense! If she's just going to keep taking little kids and making the humans more angry at the fae. Wouldn't it be better to confront her now, before she has a chance to cause more trouble?”

“I suggested an offensive be launched on her immediately, but the king feels it is too risky. Without a direct attack on our court, taking the fight to her would be seen as aggressive and could potentially draw other courts to her side. That, on top of the potential threat of human interference seems too much. He wants a guarantee that if he deploys his armies against Aithne, we won't be struck at by the humans in the meantime.”

Clarke frowns. “How would he get that? The fae don't have a relationship with the humans.”

“He wouldn't. Won't. And so he'll wait.”

“But that's not going to solve anything!” Clarke protests. She's not sure why she's arguing; Bellamy agrees with her.

“I know.” He sits up more fully. “But there's nothing we can do now. Come on, I should take you home.”

She has to go home. She knows that she has to go home. This isn't her place and it isn't her problem, but something in Clarke revolts. Surely there's _something_ she can do. Clarke has never been one to sit by idly when there's a problem. She has a compulsive need to try to fix things. And if she goes home, this will only haunt her.

“In the morning, please? I'm tired. And I know you are.”

It only takes him a moment to cave. “Fine. But first thing in the morning. I shouldn't have brought you here at all.”

Clarke settles back against her pillow, grinning despite his words. She has hours now, hours to figure out how she can be too useful to send away, no matter what Bellamy thinks. Besides, she's enjoyed spending time with him, even with as infuriating as he can be. He's a link to a world she still very much wants to explore.

* * *

 

 

When he says first thing in the morning, apparently Bellamy means it. He bundles her out of bed early, Clarke protesting the whole way. She'd fallen asleep before she'd been able to come up with a good plan. But the grumbling in her stomach gets her moving. She hasn't had anything to eat since lunch the day before.

“We're taking the stairs out,” Bellamy tells her as they're traveling down yet another torchlit hallway. She has no idea how he tells them all apart. “I thought you might prefer it to the lake.”

Halfway up, she's not so sure. The feeling of drowning had been terrible, but with a stitch in her side and sweat coating her body, it is its own type of Hell. Bellamy appears unbothered, stupid fucking fae.

“Nearly there,” he reassures her, even though she still can't see the top. He has to mean it, but his definition of 'nearly' and hers might not be exactly the same.

“I hate exercise,” Clarke groans. “I'm never doing this again.” As soon as she says it, she regrets it. Because if Bellamy has his way, she won't be. He thinks he made a mistake. But Clarke isn't ready to relinquish this strange world yet. There's still a problem to be fixed and so much to learn.

She has to squint against the sunlight when they finally emerge from Bellamy's father's court, her eyes too accustomed to the gloom of being underground. Once she gets her bearing, she realizes she recognizes this place, a clearing in the woods a couple of miles from her house with a large stone boulder she and her friends had climbed on as children. She looks behind her, but sees nothing but woods.

“Where's the entrance?” she asks.

“There's a door, not visible to human eyes, and glamoured to keep them from walking into it accidentally.” Bellamy's already off, with his seemingly endless stamina that makes her despise him a little bit. Clarke's never been an athlete, but she's pretty sure any normal human would be winded after God only knows how many stairs she just climbed.

“Hey,” she catches up to him, “can we get breakfast? I'm starving.” A hazy plan from the night before is starting to form. She doesn't think Bellamy will like it, but he might like it better than the king's course of action. She just needs to get him somewhere public where he'll be forced to listen. And it's the right thing to say, because guilt crosses his face.

“Shit, yeah, of course. I didn't think about how long it's been.”

 

They eat at Vera's, a small somewhat run down diner on the edge of town. And Clarke begins to craft her exact words while she eats her pancakes and gets a much needed caffeine boost from the slightly burnt coffee.

“I have an idea,” she says, finally, long after Bellamy's finished his omelet and is waiting patiently for her to drink her fourth cup of coffee.

He raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say anything.

“You're not going to like it,” she adds. But she thinks it just might work.

“You're really selling this here,” Bellamy jokes. If it weren't for the strain around his eyes, she might think he wasn't taking her seriously.

“You said your father won't confront Aithne while there's a threat of human retaliation for Holly. But what if he could be convinced that the humans would stay away, as long as they felt that the real issue was being addressed.”

Bellamy's brow furrows. “Okay, great, but how do we do that? No offense, but I don't think our illustrious mayor is going to be willing to chat with the fae king.” He's talking about Marcus Kane. And he's right. There's no way that “by the book” Marcus will approve an impromptu meeting with the fae when there's been no official contact since the town's founding. But Clarke's plan doesn't rely on Marcus.

“He won't. But maybe the town princess could.”

It takes Bellamy a moment to catch her meaning, and once he does she can tell he hates it. “No. No way. It couldn't be done, and even if it could it's too dangerous. You'd be lying about your position, about the promises you'd make; you'd make an enemy out of the fae if anything went wrong. And I can't tell them you're a princess, because I can't lie.”

“You don't have to tell them I'm a princess. But you said the fae don't have a great sense of the human world and the social hierarchy here. All you have to do is introduce me as Princess Clarke, a human representative for the town. It's not a lie. You've called me Princess before.”

“As a _nickname_ ,” Bellamy argues.

“And that's all it'll be. They just don't need to know that.”

“That's fucked up, Clarke. What if something goes wrong?” Bellamy's hands have curled into fists on the table top.

“What if it works?” Clarke counters, and she can see that it's tempting to him. She's found a loophole in their helplessness, and she can tell Bellamy hates being helpless.

“And what are you going to tell your parents? 'Hey Mom and Dad, gonna go spend a few days in the fae court masquerading as a princess, see you around!' That's insane.”

Clarke straightens up, she has to convince him. “My dad's dead. And my mom works a lot. I'll just tell her I'm staying at a friend's house.”

“It's a terrible plan.” But that's not a no. She's got him.

Clarke grins, a victory smile. “We can work out the details on the way to my house. I should look the part, if I'm going to play it.”

“I fucking hate this.” But again, it's not a no.

 

They only make it halfway back to Clarke's house before she notices the stares and hostile looks. Based on the tight set of Bellamy's shoulders, he's already aware. For one baffled moment Clarke thinks it has something to do with the two of them together. After all, Bellamy's always been seen as a little bit of a challenge to the girls around their age, and walking together early in the morning in yesterday's rumpled clothes probably gives everyone a very specific, if inaccurate, idea of what they've been doing together. But it's not just teenagers eying them oddly, it's adults. Only, they aren't really glowering at Clarke.

“Fucking fairy bastard!” someone yells, and Clarke whips her head around to try to catch who, but it's unclear. Bellamy just hunches his shoulders and keeps walking, but Clarke is filled with a rage that can't be contained.

“Who the fuck said that?” She snaps, shooting glares at everyone on the street.

“Clarke, leave it.” Bellamy takes her elbow. “It won't change anything.”

“But you didn't do anything!” And it's clear what this is about. The whole town knows what Bellamy is, so with Holly missing, he's the prime suspect.

“No, but you won't convince them of that. And I can handle it, Princess.”

It doesn't stop her from leveling every single person who so much as glances their way with a glare all the way to her house. Bellamy just keeps his shoulders hunched, hands shoved into his pockets, sinking into himself in a way that screams he just wants to disappear.

Her mother isn't home. Not that Clarke expected her to be. And there's a phone call from the school on the answering machine about Clarke being absent from school, which started half an hour ago. Abby rarely checks the answering machine, but Clarke deletes it anyway, just in case.

She pens a quick note to her mother to explain she's staying at her friend Monroe's for a couple of days, and leaves it on the island in the kitchen.

“I need to shower and get cleaned up before we head back,” Clarke informs Bellamy, leading him back to her room. “You can watch TV or whatever,” she suggests gesturing at her room, a weird inverse of the night before. She leaves Bellamy in her bedroom and goes to raid her closet.

Lucky for Clarke, Abby always insists on absurdly expensive dresses for both the Mayor's Christmas and 4th of July celebration each year, so Clarke actually has a wardrobe she thinks she can pass off as belonging to a princess. She never thought she'd need most of these dresses again.

After a long shower and a little extra time in front of her makeup mirror, Clarke feels ready to go. She's never considered herself much of an actress, but this she thinks she can pull off. She's had her fair share of evenings stuffed into finery and making small talk. It'll be like that, only more dangerous.

Bellamy's reading her copy of _Little Women_ when she returns to the bedroom, dressed and with a packed bag of dresses and makeup. He glances up at her over the cover of the book and she catches surprise on his face, lips parted.

“So, do I pass?” Clarke asks, basking a little in the glow his expression gives her.

Bellamy clears his throat and puts the book down. “Almost.” And at the tips of his fingers something is forming. He pulls the dainty little tiara out of the air like it's nothing, and steps forward to settle it properly on her head.

“Showoff,” Clarke mutters, cheeks flushed from how close he's standing, and for the first time in a while, Bellamy smiles.

“Princess,” he replies.

* * *

 

 

They arrive at court just after noon. They take the stairs, which are easier on the way down, but make Clarke dizzy if she looks over the edge. Bellamy, the bastard, seems comfortable as ever, because of course he does.

“Remember,” he tells her for what has to be the thousandth time, “when we get to court we'll approach my father in the throne room and introduce you. It will likely take him some time to decide if he'll accept your word as a human ambassador, so we'll have to mingle and wait. Don't-”

“-Eat or drink anything unless I've cleared it with you first, I know.”

“My father is unpredictable, and he can bestow blessing and curses in equal measure. Often, it's difficult to tell them apart. Try not to give him reason to give you anything.”

“How do I do that?” Clarke asks.

“Be ordinary, unremarkable, nothing special. You're human, so he'll automatically assume you're not worthy, just don't give him any reason to change his mind.”

He stops her just before entering the throne room. “You don't have to do this, you know.”

Clarke lifts her chin. “I know. But I am.”

They enter the throne room from a doorway that's closer to the throne this time. It allows for an easier path to the king, and they make it there relatively unscathed, which probably has something to do with the murderous look Bellamy is giving anyone who seems inclined to approach them. Only a man with unnaturally long fingers and quicksilver eyes looks like he might dare anyway, but Bellamy shoves past him before he can get a word out.

The king is already looking at them when they arrive at the foot of the dais, and his eyes flash momentarily at his son, as if he knows what's coming and he already disapproves.

“King Torin,” Bellamy declares, his voice steady and emotionless, “I present to you Princess Clarke, who has graciously agreed to come be a human representative on your council in these trying times. She wishes to assure you that the humans mean no harm to us so long as the true problem is addressed.”

He's good, Clarke thinks, as she curtsies as Bellamy had previously instructed. She hopes his father hadn't noticed the slight pause between Princess and Clarke that had allowed him to fake her nickname as a title.

“You speak for the humans?” the king asks. His voice, when not booming out at the crowd, isn't as deep as Bellamy's and it has a slippery quality she doesn't like.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Clarke lies.

“And you can guarantee we will be left alone to deal with this issue if the girl is returned?” She feels she's being picked apart by his gaze. But this is what she came for. If she has to lie and pretend her way there, she will.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she repeats.

“Interesting.” He leans back in the throne. “I will consider your offer, Princess.”

“Thank you.” Clarke curtsies again, and she and Bellamy retreat back into the crowd, Clarke dizzy with the thrill of what she's just done. She'd lied to a fae king and quite possibly gotten away with it. Bellamy's frowning back in his father's direction, but his shoulders are more relaxed than they were a few minutes ago, so Clarke takes that as a good sign.

“How do you think it went?” she asks quietly.

“Hard to tell. He's definitely considering it, but he is _not_ happy with me for going behind his back. Hopefully it pays off.”

The man with the unnaturally long, slender fingers and eyes that seem to be somewhere between gray and silver appears out of the crowd and claps Bellamy on the shoulder, a teasing grin sliding across his mouth. Clarke notes the silver circlet in his dark hair. A prince. One of Bellamy's brothers.

“Faolan, I didn't think we'd be seeing you!” the prince grins. “You're always off with your humans these days. Though it seems you've progressed to bringing them home with you.” His eyes travel over Clarke, slow, lazily, and with plenty of interest.

“Vali,” Bellamy's voice holds a hint of warning. “This is Princess Clarke, the human representative for the council. Clarke, my brother, Prince Vali. If he bothers you, threaten his hands. He's a baby about protecting his fingers.”

“How is a musician to play without his hands?” Vali protests. Some of the arrogance has left his face. He cares what Bellamy thinks, Clarke notes, even if he pretends not to. They might be able to use that later.

“Faolan!” Bellamy's father's voice booms out across the room, sending the nearest fae skittering away. Bellamy clenches his jaw, but his eyes are resigned.

“Vali, stay with Clarke and keep your hands to yourself, I'll only be a moment.” He gives his brother a stern look, before turning and pushing his way toward his father's throne.

“He never lets me have any fun, that one,” Vali says mournfully. “But our father would take his side over mine in an instant, so,” Vali shrugs.

“You're the musician,” Clarke responds, ignoring the prince's lament. “And Iver's the heir; Elden's the scientist; Dane and Cowan are meant to be diplomats. What's Bellamy?”

Vali smirks, his eyes sparking. “He hasn't told you?”

Clarke just levels a cold look his way, and he holds his hands up in surrender.

“Bellamy,” Vali draws out his name, grinning, “leads my father's armies. Or rather, he will, once he's done playing human. My father thinks it's amusing, that Faolan is so insistent on getting his human... degree? That's the word, I believe. But a few years, that's nothing to my father. He's decided to let my brother live out his human life, at least until it starts to become clear he is not aging, until his immortality forces him to retreat. The king is a patient man. For now, Bellamy's a general in our father's armies.”

Clarke considers Bellamy, standing next to the king, speaking quickly, face determined. They look so much like each other, it's almost as if Bellamy's looking into some fantastical mirror and the king is a magical reflection, looking back. Even so, the king has a coldness to him that doesn't touch Bellamy, and Clarke can't imagine the boy she knows as someone riding into war. For as short a time as she's truly known him, she's seen he loves books and stories and study, not war.

“Are you second guessing yourself?” Vali asks. Clarke turns her head to look at him, confused. His eyes are such an odd color, like smoke mixed with starlight. “My brother won't stay with you for long, and... well, in the meantime, a musicians touch is softer-”

“-Fuck off, Vali.” Bellamy arrives back at her side with a sharp glare for his brother.

Vali gives a little bow, still smirking. “Think about it. You need only ask, Princess.” And then he's gone, slipping through the crowd easily, and out of sight.

Bellamy rubs at his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger momentarily, as if fighting off a headache. “He's all talk, really. He means it, but he's more in it for the game. He likes luring people into his bed, so he likely won't bother you unless you seek him out. But I would have preferred introducing you to Elden if he were here.”

But Clarke's mind has already moved past Vali and his flirtations. She's thinking of something else entirely.

“They called you Faolan,” Clarke murmurs. It had been on the paper she'd found as well.

“A nickname,” Bellamy sighs. “It's what my father wanted to name me, but my mother ignored him. So all the court calls me it, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because my father prefers it. And because they think it's funny.”

“What makes it funny?”

“Because of what I-”

“ _Bellamy!!”_ Clarke only manages to turn her head before a small blur bursts out of the crowd and flings itself wildly at Bellamy. For his part, he doesn't seem surprised, and catches the whirlwind up in his arms and swings him around. It's a little boy, Clarke catches a flash of hooves where she would normally expect feet, and when they slow, Bellamy settling the boy easily on his hip, she sees very small antlers just barely poking out above the boy's unruly curls.

“Caelen, I want you to meet Clarke.”

She notes the boy's golden circlet. A prince. The brother Bellamy didn't get a chance to tell her about. He can't be older than five or six.

He turns big, doe eyes on her. He looks more like Bellamy than the rest of the brothers she's met. He's got the same skin tone, hair, and eyes. If it weren't for the hooves and horns, Clarke might think him human.

“Hello, Caelen,” Clarke says.

Instead of answering he reaches out one hand, as if to touch her, but then at the end of his fingertips, a small purple flower blooms from the air. It floats before Clarke until she plucks it from the air and Caelen laughs.

“His latest attempts at wooing all the ladies of the court,” Bellamy says, fond.

“I can do roses and daffodils too!” Caelen announces proudly.

“There you are!” A harried small boned girl with pink hair and delicate gold wings darts out of the crowd. “I apologize my prince, he's becoming quite slippery.”

Bellamy gives Caelen a mock stern look. “Are you running away from Piritta again?”

“She was flirting with Vali, I didn't think she'd notice,” Caelen defends himself, an impressive pout that Clarke can imagine Bellamy himself once utilized as a child passing over his face.

The girl, Piritta, presumably, colors impressively. “I-I-”

“That, I expect, was more likely the other way around.” Caelen's pout has disappeared as he listens to Bellamy. It's easy to see that he worships his older brother.

“I should be getting him back to his lessons,” Piritta interjects timidly.

“See if you can do lilies next,” Bellamy tells his little brother, dropping a quick kiss into his curls and transferring him over to Piritta's arms. “And be good for Piritta for once!”

Clarke watches Piritta sweep the little prince away while he makes flowers bloom in the air behind them.

“Hopefully he doesn't take after Vali,” Bellamy says, “or he'll be all trouble in a few years.”

“I wouldn't be surprised if you were some trouble yourself,” Clarke comments. It's not flirting, not really, Clarke tells herself.

“I don't know why you would say that,” Bellamy replies loftily, but the smile at the corner of his mouth contradicts him, as close to a lie as he can get. “Now, if you're going to be in this court for a little while, there's someone I want you to meet, and she's almost definitely where the wine is.”

It turns out Bellamy is talking about a pixie named Raven, and they do in fact find her by a table of curious wines like Clarke has never seen before. Some glitter like there are jewels at the bottom of the cup, a few are smoking, one seems to be _sparking_. The light it throws bounces off of Raven's shiny iridescent wings.

“Did you and Monty collaborate on that one?” Bellamy asks, nodding to the wine that's giving off sparks.

“New specialty,” Raven responds, grinning with a ferocity that Clarke finds intimidating. She's beautiful in the way that only fae can be, flawless and yet terrifying. If Clarke didn't know better, she would have said her ex girlfriend Lexa was definitely one of them.

“Raven, I want you to meet Princess Clarke.”

Clarke finds herself being dissected by a pair of sharp, brilliant eyes. “A human?”

“Yes, and she may be around for a little while, so I thought I should introduce her to the best people.” Bellamy doesn't try to hide the flattery, but Raven seems to soak it up anyway.

“Well, I suppose that proves you're not a complete idiot.”

“Raven's a genius,” Bellamy tells Clarke, “And she likes to make things explode, note the very dangerous looking wine.”

“It's safe for consumption,” Raven protests. Then, eyeing Clarke, “Maybe not for humans.”

It's as if a wave of quiet hits the room and Clarke turns to see that the king is standing. It still throws her how quickly he can silence a room.

“I call the council to the war room.” There's a long pause, where the king looks out at the crowd, thoughtful. “Princess Clarke, please join us.” He leaves with the same sweeping gait she'd noticed the last time.

“That's good, right?” Clarke asks, once the silence has begun to be filled again.

Bellamy is watching the place where his father disappeared behind the throne. “In theory. Raven, can you escort Clarke to the war room? I'll catch up.”

“Wait,” Clarke protests. “Where are you going?”

“I think it's time to remind the rest of the council exactly why I am there,” is Bellamy's only response. He's gone before she can question it.

“He'd deny it, but that one loves a little drama,” Raven says next to her. She looks entirely unimpressed; it makes Clarke like her better.

She can't say she's totally comfortable being left alone with Raven in this place, but she doesn't think Bellamy would leave her if he thought Raven would let anything happen, so she's just going to have to trust him.

The hallway Raven takes her down on the way to the war room is different than the others Clarke has seen. Instead of all stone, the floors are marbled and the walls are wallpapered in red. They stop at a large wooden door, and Raven nods her head at it.

“I can't come with you because I'm not a council member, but you should be fine in there. The only person who could get away with messing with you is the king and Bellamy couldn't stop that even if he were here.”

It's not exactly reassuring, not when she's lying to the king's face, but Clarke doesn't want to look weak, so she nods and puts her hand on the door.

“Hey,” Raven grasps her elbow. “If you want to test out some fae wines later, let me know. Monty doesn't get a lot chances to measure the way different humans react to them, but it could be helpful information.”

Clarke's pretty sure she's not interested in being a human guinea pig, but she nods anyway. There's no reason to potentially upset any allies. She takes one steadying breath before opening the door.

The room before her isn't large, but the word “cavern” comes to mind, maybe because the walls are raw stone, uneven and craggy, and maybe because the ceiling is far, far above them. There's a large round table in the center of the room and it takes up most of the available space. Most of the seats around it are filled. The king is sitting in a massive wooden chair, that makes the table appear to have a head, even though that's not possible with its shape.

Clarke takes one of the only free seats as far away from him as she can. Even her chair is made of heavy wood, and she wants to scoot it forward, but doesn't think there's a dignified way to do it. She can feel the eyes of the other fae, but she keeps her chin up and doesn't make eye contact.

After a moment or two, conversation creeps up between the council members, and Clarke takes the opportunity to sneak glances at them. She sees Vali, a few seats down, wearing a bright green doublet and a large golden crown. Everyone is well dressed, she notes, and decked out in what feels like an unnecessary amount of jewels. She sees Iver, sitting next to the king in velvet and rubies, and another prince who she's guessing is Elden due to the fact that he appears to be missing his eyebrows; he's in silk, though it looks rather hastily thrown on, and to her surprise he has large leathery wings that remind her of a bat rising behind him. One is heavily scarred, a little lopsided, and held closer to his body. She wonders what caused that injury.

The rest of council members filter in slowly, but none of them draw the attention that Clarke had. It makes Clarke nervous when a freakishly tall man with eyes like a snake takes the seat on one side of her, and then when a goblin occupies the other. She's careful not to make eye contact. Raven said she'd be safe here, but she doesn't feel it.

Bellamy arrives in the war room quietly, but it still sends the occupants gathered into a sharp silence, reminiscent of his father. He's changed clothes, Clarke realizes. Unlike the rest of the people gathered, he's not dressed in silk or velvet; he's not adorned with jewels. Instead, Bellamy wears simple fighting leathers, all black, with what looks like a wolf worked into the breastplate. He's got a simple band of silver on his head, nearly obscured by his hair, a sharp contrast to his brothers, who all wear heavily jeweled crowns that sit heavy on their heads. He looks different, more than just an outfit change. He looks ready to go to war.

There's no free seat next to Clarke, but a look from Bellamy sends the goblin skittering for a new seat, while he takes the one that had been vacated. She relaxes slightly, with Bellamy's presence next to her. She's still not safe, can't be while lying to the king, but it feels good to have a powerful ally.

The king watches Bellamy's entrance with unreadable eyes. “Well, now that we're all here, I suppose we should get down to business. The human child is still missing, no doubt trapped in Aithne's court, and we are joined by a human representative, Princess Clarke.

“She assures me that the humans have no plans to move against us at this time, though the missing girl is a priority.” The king pauses, his eyes lingering on Clarke, and she can feel every single pair of eyes at the table trained carefully on her. Bellamy's hand finds hers under the table, taking it in his own.

“As the situation has changed, I feel it is time to revisit our options. I expect you all have something to say about that,” the king finishes.

“It changes nothing!” The tall man next to Clarke is the first to speak up. “A direct attack on Aithne's court is too dangerous! The other courts will side with her. Even if she did take the human girl, what's one human?”

It's only Bellamy's hand in hers that keeps her present enough not to immediately go off on him. _What's one human?_ As if humans are just toys for the fae to play with.

“Have you heard anything from Prince Dane or Prince Cowan?” another councillor asks.

The king frowns. “They say only that they are not privy to the Queen's personal plans. She's very secretive. They have not seen the human girl.”

“It seems to me,” it takes a moment for her to realize it's Bellamy's brother Elden speaking, his voice is quiet with a scratchy edge to it, “that Aithne has a plan, and letting her just play it out is a bad decision.”

Well, at least someone's on their side, even if it's the brother Bellamy said didn't care for politics. Everyone knows he's smart too, right? He's a scientist, so he must be smart.

“Unless a reaction is exactly what she wants.” This input comes from Iver, who looks regal at his seat at the table. He's the only one of the princes not wearing any form of crown. Even so, his antlers make it impossible to forget who his father is and his clothing appears to be made from velvet and trimmed with fur. There are jewels studding the collar of his shirt.

“It's not just about what Aithne wants.” Bellamy's voice is commanding, a rumble next to Clarke. “What matters is that there's a little girl who has been taken from her family and her home and it's most likely because someone wants to strike at us. It's our responsibility to fix that.”

“So you'd play right into her hands?” Iver counters.

“Of course he would he's always been a hotheaded-” the tall man begins.

“-We don't know that it would be. We don't know anything. If you have any suggestions to finding out, then I'm all ears, brother. But as far as I can see, all anyone in this council actually wants to do is sit on their asses and talk each other in circles.”

“I think-” Vali begins, but doesn't get any further.

“-You're not even a council member!” Iver snaps. “You're only allowed in here because it would be more trouble than it's worth to remove you.”

“Well, in that case, I'm for a plan that involves Iver on the front lines,” Vali snaps back.

“Mature,” Iver sniffs.

“When have I ever claimed-”

“- _Silence_.” The king's voice rings out over the table. “I do not bring my sons in here to squabble like children. Princess Clarke, you look as if you have something you wish to say.”

Clarke can think of several things, but none seem like they would particularly endear the king or his council to her cause. She's never been good at this part of things. Clarke knows she's smart, and that she's probably a better critical thinker than half the people in this room, but she doesn't have a talent for inspiring others with words.

“I think this situation is going to get worse, no matter what you do. But no one ever accomplished anything by sitting around twiddling their thumbs.” It's probably the most true thing she's said to the king yet.

“It makes the most sense to strike now. If her plan is to slowly rile the humans, as you believe it is, cutting that off is the best option.” Bellamy jumps into the silence Clarke's words had created, pushing for their advantage.

“And why should I listen to you, over my other advisors?”

“You want me to command your armies, Father.” He doesn't shout, like Iver had, but Clarke is sure no one has trouble hearing him. When Bellamy speaks, people listen. “I would not expect you would wish that if you did not think I had a sense for when a battle is necessary.”

“You do not command my armies _yet_ , Faolan.”

Bellamy raises his eyebrows. “Is that what this is about? That I've refused command?”

“What do I care about a few years? Take them, boy, but don't be surprised that it causes me to question your reasoning.”

“I'm half human.” Bellamy lifts his chin. “It makes me different from all of you. I have been reminded that I'm not like you, or like them, like _anyone_ , every day of my entire life. I won't ever be all one or the other. But I know how humans think. And I know how fae think. And I can offer something that not a single one of you can- perspective.”

The king nods, once. “Thank you, Faolan. I've heard enough.” The room goes silent, but in an odd thrumming sort of way, every occupant waiting for the king's decision.

“For now, I believe the best course of action is to wait.”

Clarke's grip tightens on Bellamy's hand in fury, and he shoots her a warning glance. The tall man next to Clarke crows with pleasure and it's all she can do not to punch him in the throat. Perhaps worse is the smug look on Iver's face.

“Council dismissed.”

The members of the council start to drift out, but Bellamy cuts a straight path to his father, tugging Clarke along in his wake. The king is only a step from the door when they reach him.

“Faolan,” the king acknowledges.

“You'd already decided when you set foot in here exactly what the outcome of this meeting would be,” Bellamy accuses. The king does not deny it.

“You spoke well today, Bellamy.” It's the first time Clarke's heard the king call his son by his true name.

“You're making a mistake,” Bellamy snaps, ignoring the praise. The king gazes at him, unflinching.

“Perhaps.”

* * *

 

 

“I need a drink,” Clarke growls the moment they're no longer trapped in the council room. “Where's Raven? She said she had something for me to try.”

“Clarke, you shouldn't-” Bellamy starts. They've just entered the throne room. It's as packed as ever.  
“Oh, no, don't you tell me what to do. I want a drink and I've earned it.”

“It's not like human alcohol, Clarke.” But she isn't listening. Instead, she's elbowing her way through the crowd, for once more angry than she is intimidated. Luckily, Raven is exactly where she was when they'd been introduced.

“How'd it go?” she asks, when Clarke storms out of the crowd.

“I want a drink.”

“That well?” Raven teases. But Clarke's not really in the mood for jokes. Unfortunately Bellamy catches up to them before Raven can hand her anything.

“Clarke, seriously-”  
“-Oh don't worry so much, wolf boy,” Raven says, rolling her eyes.

Clarke didn't think anything would distract her from the drink, but she finds herself raising her eyebrows at the nickname.

“Faolan means 'little wolf,'” Bellamy explains, hand going unconsciously to the wolf on his breastplate. “Raven's just snarky.”

“Here, try this,” Raven interrupts, holding a goblet of deep red wine that shimmers oddly in the light.

“Raven-” Bellamy starts.

“-It won't hurt her. It's perfectly safe for human consumption. She doesn't have to drink it if she doesn't want.”

Clarke takes the goblet and drains it as fast as she can, before Bellamy can raise any more complaints. She doesn't care; she's pissed and sick of this stupid court that doesn't give a shit about humans.

“I was just going to ask what the side effects of that one are,” Bellamy finishes.

“Oh.” Raven looks a little chagrined. “It'll get her normal drunk, but it also causes unrestrained honesty.”

Absently, Clarke thinks this might be a problem, with the wine rushing straight to her head, faster than anything she's ever experienced. It's hard to remember why.

“Fantastic,” Bellamy murmurs, pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead. “Exactly what we needed.”

Clarke giggles. She can't help it. She feels _good_ , her anger melting away easily. She doesn't know why Bellamy's so worried. It's beautiful down here, with all manners of wings and fur and antlers and claws. Strange, but beautiful.

“You look like you could use a dance.” It's Vali who appears at her elbow, smiling, eyes lit up like molten silver. And dancing sounds perfect, even though she's not sure she likes this prince. She holds out a hand to Vali, feeling lightweight and wonderful.

Bellamy makes a weird sound in the back of his throat. “Vali.”

“The princess wants to have a good time, Bellamy. There's nothing wrong with that.” He sweeps Clarke away before she has a chance to hear Bellamy's response, but she can feel his eyes on her, as Vali spins her around, laughing. It doesn't bother her, the awareness she has of Bellamy's gaze; it's just a silent companion, something warm and comfortable.

She has no idea how long she's been dancing, spinning with Vali, with the girl with green skin and iridescent wings, and the boy with blonde curls and lions teeth. But she does know when Bellamy's gaze disappears. She stops spinning, looking for him.

He's at the edge of the crowd, speaking with the king. No, arguing seems more accurate. She takes a step closer, away from the dancing, and someone catches her arm. It's Vali, his head tilted in question. She shakes him off, and starts to push her way toward Bellamy and the king.

She never makes it. Cold fingers wrap around her wrist, and this time it isn't Vali. The creature holding her wrist is small, spindly, with teeth like a shark when it smiles at her.

“What's the hurry, girl?” It's voice is grating, slimy, and even in her haze it sends ice shooting down her spine.

“Let go.”

“Ah, but we want to play.” And that's when Clarke realizes she's surrounded. She counts five of the little creatures, shorter than her, but with wicked teeth and sharp nails. She blinks and there's ten of them, then seven, then- they're messing with her head, with what she sees. Maybe there's only one, but she can't tell.

“Let me _go_ ,” she tries to pull her wrist away, but the creature is too strong. Its nails sink into her skin and draw blood. The creature smiles again, and raises one sharp nail to her face, a breath away from her skin.

“You don't want to do that.” The fury in Bellamy's voice is palpable. Clarke's heart leaps into her throat in relief.

“My prince, she's only a human,” the creature protests. “And such lovely eyes for my collection-”

“ _Release_ her.” The grip on Clarke's wrist loosens reluctantly, then falls away. Bellamy steps past the creature, close to Clarke.

“Are you alright?” To be honest, Clarke isn't sure, and she _has_ to be honest, the wine in her blood not allowing her to lie, so she just lets it guide her to do the one thing that she knows she wants, which is to sink into the safety of Bellamy's arms.

“Okay,” Bellamy breathes, his arms coming up to hold her against his chest. “I think it's time for bed.”

 

By the time they get back to Bellamy's room, the fear has slipped away, and she's left feeling warm and fuzzy. Bellamy helps her into a sitting position on the bed, covers pulled back, then taps her calves.

“Okay, feet up, you don't want to sleep in your shoes.”

Clarke lifts her feet, giggling when it takes Bellamy a moment to locate the hidden zipper. Shoes off, he pulls the covers up to her chin. Yet again, she notes how tired he looks, like he's been carrying the whole world on his shoulders.

Fondness wells up in her, sharp and sudden. Bellamy is so good, and so beautiful, and she hopes he knows. She hopes sometimes he doesn't look so burdened.

“I really want to kiss you,” Clarke says. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she gets the feeling she shouldn't have told him that, but she can't for the life of her think of why.

Bellamy's lips quirk in surprise, which just makes her want to kiss him more. “Tell me that after you've slept this off and I'll see what I can do.”

“Why not now?” Clarke pouts, unable to help herself.

“Because you're fae drunk now. You might not mean it tomorrow.”

“But Raven said I couldn't lie.”

“And I believe you want to kiss me right now. See if you still do when it wears off.” He finishes tucking her in, and Clarke thinks Bellamy is different from his father because he has gentle eyes.

“I will,” she says, stubborn.

Bellamy only smiles and straightens up, but the sight of him leaving sends panic lurching in her chest. She doesn't want to be alone here, not in this place where creatures roam.

“Wait, don't go!”

He pauses, studying her. “I think I better.”

“No. Please stay. I don't want to be alone.”

She sees the decision made behind his eyes. The bed dips as he joins her, still wary. She rolls over and cuddles up against him, let's herself believe she's safe.

“I'm scared of this place,” she admits, quiet. “I don't like feeling helpless. They could have done anything to me, made me see things, made me do things. They all have magic, and I'm just human.” Clarke shivers, and Bellamy's arm slides around her, holding her close.

“It won't happen again. And they'll regret what they've done.” His voice holds a dark promise. She thinks she should maybe be worried about what he means, but she just can't find that emotion.

“What happens now?”

“What do you mean?” Bellamy sounds wary, like he's expecting something he doesn't want to face.

“About Holly. Your father isn't going to help. The plan didn't work, what do we do now?”

He's quiet for a long moment. “You could go home. It's not your problem, you know.”

She could, he's right. She's not sure there's much she can do about any of this, and it isn't her responsibility, but that feels like giving up, and Clarke isn't good at that. “What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to try again,” Bellamy says. “My father might be more willing to listen if I can get a private audience with him. He wants to save face in front of the council. I think I might be able to get through to him.”

“I want to see this through. At least one more day,” Clarke decides. She's sure Bellamy will question it tomorrow, when she's thinking more clearly, but it feels like the right thing to do. Walking away from a problem just isn't in Clarke's nature. She's come this far.

“Okay,” Bellamy replies. “You should try to sleep.”

He's probably right. She's going to need some rest if she plans to spend more time in the fae court, where she's constantly on guard. Instead, her mind drifts to a place she hasn't let it go, and the words tumble right out of her mouth.

“Do you date fae?”

“What?”

“You don't date humans, or no one at school. Is it because you only date fae?” She's suddenly not sure she wants the answer. She's not sure she'll like it.

“More like I've never really had anyone, so...” He shrugs. Clarke sits up, dizzy.

“What, _never_?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy shrugs again. “Hook ups are more my speed. Relationships take... You know, different material.”

“Like what?” Clarke asks, lying back down and hoping that will help the spinning in her head.

He answers fast, probably before he has a chance to think it through. “Like thinking you deserve someone.”

She wants to say something to that, to protest that thought, but her head is fuzzy and she can't think of any words to express how she feels or that might change his mind, so instead she snuggles closer and seeks out his hand, threading their fingers together.

She falls asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

 

The morning comes too fast, Clarke blinking her eyes open, only to squeeze them shut against the light fracturing across the room. Her head hurts, her tongue feels thick and heavy in her mouth, and she only has vague impressions of the night before.

Cracking one tentative eye open, she catches sight of Bellamy, sitting at the heavy desk, leaning over a book. He looks stupidly good, and she hates him a little for it.

“Don't let me do that again,” Clarke groans, forcing herself into a sitting position.

“I'm fairly certain I couldn't stop you.”

He studies her, and something in her face must reveal her hangover, because he frowns and says, “Are you sure you want to stay today? I've scheduled a meeting with my father this afternoon, but there's no guarantee it'll do any good. I could take you home first.”

She doesn't remember telling him she wanted to stay; she doesn't even remember him saying he was going to try again to reason with the king, but she knows the answer.

“I'm staying.”

Bellamy doesn't look surprised. “Okay.”

As she comes more fully into consciousness, Clarke realizes she's still in her dress from the day before, and it has her itching to get it off. She doesn't think she actually got it particularly dirty, but somehow waking up in a dress she got drunk and passed out in makes her feel scattered and stale. She clambers out of bed and heads for the bag she'd brought. None of it is casual clothing, unless she plans to wander around in her pajamas, but at least she can get into something clean.

She ends up selecting a light blue dress, deeply cut, but with a light airy fabric that doesn't constrict her. It's definitely not what she would choose to wear if she were home, but she isn't.

“I'm going to change,” Clarke announces, cradling the dress in her arms as she turns to where Bellamy is sitting.

“Can I turn around, or do you want me to leave?” he asks, clearly still half absorbed in his book. Clarke isn't sure whether to feel fond or offended at his distracted attitude, but she's leaning toward fond.

“Just turn around.”

“Got it.” He shifts his chair around to face the opposite wall and Clarke shimmies out of her dress, reaching for the new one. She'd love a shower, but at least she didn't get particularly dirty the night before, just wasted.

Her new outfit shows off a lot of skin, and she hesitates for a moment, something in her brain triggering from the night before, a reason not to want to draw attention to herself, but she shrugs it away. She won't let this place intimidate her. She won't.

After changing clothes and running her fingers through her hair and twisting it up into something she thinks will pass as elegant, rather than just lazy, she feels significantly better. She could definitely use some water and food to combat the hangover, but at least she feels slightly refreshed.

“Any chance this place has a burger joint?” Clarke jokes, a little weaker than normal due to her headache, stepping up behind Bellamy's chair. He closes his book, _The Iliad_ , and glances at her over his shoulder.

“That's going to be hard to deliver on. But I think we can manage some breakfast food.”

“How about some Motrin?”

Bellamy grins. “That, I think I can take care of.” He stands up, and reaches for her, hand cupping her cheek. For a moment, Clarke's mind flashes to hazy warm moment, _I really want to kiss you_ , but she hadn't actually _said_ that, had she? It's not that it isn't true... She's just not sure he wants to kiss her back.

Thumb pressed to her forehead, Bellamy smiles, and with a sharp sting, her hangover evaporates. His hand lingers, and Clarke's heart skips a beat. There's something about last night; it's changed their dynamic, but Clarke doesn't know how. She really should have thought through the fae wine. It's just her luck the one time she decides to cut loose she misses something important. He leans in, just a little, and Clarke thinks he's going to kiss her, she wants him to. But then just ask quickly he leans back and instead tucks a strand of hair behind Clarke's ear.

“Before we go anywhere,” He reaches over the desk and opens a drawer. Inside it is a small but ornate silver dagger that looks wicked sharp. “I thought you might like to have this. I can get you a holster for it after breakfast. And,” he tugs at the collar of his shirt, revealing a thin chain that he pulls out. Bellamy unfastens the chain from around his own neck, silver, with a small flat, circular pendant on the end.

“If you're going to be in the fae courts alone, you'll need to wear this. I should have given it to you yesterday, I just didn't think...”

“What is it?” Clarke asks, taking it from his hand and examining the pendant. One side has a raised engraving of antlers, the other a wolf.

“Protection from the royal family. As long as you wear it, no one will harm you, no one will glamour you, you will be treated with respect.” Bellamy's lips quirk up a little bit, “And perhaps a little fear. It has powerful protection spells placed on it by my father. It can't protect you from a physical attack, except by the power of my father's reputation, but it should keep out most magic.”

“And you can give that to anyone?”

Bellamy reaches out to run his finger over the antlers. “My father had these made. One for each son. The royal seal,” he taps the antlers, “on one side, and a different marking for each of his sons on the other. My father doesn't have to care about who wears it. But an attack on that person is an affront to his power; it shows blatant disrespect for the crown, and for whichever son the pendant was gifted. He would never stand for that. And our whole court knows it. Travel outside our lands, and it might not carry such weight. But here, this is stronger, more sure, than magic.”

“Why _are_ you just giving it to me now?” Clarke asks. Something doesn't line up.

Bellamy grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck self consciously. “It comes with certain implications in relation to who you are. To me.”

Clarke snorts. “You mean everyone's going to assume I'm sleeping with you.” That doesn't seem so bad to Clarke- she would be, if he wanted. She lifts the pendant over her head. It's a longer chain than she would normally wear, but with the neckline of her dress, it's framed nearly perfectly, if a little suggestively. “You know everyone already thinks that, right?”

She can't help but be a little pleased with the slight color that raises to Bellamy's cheeks. He's so unflappable most of the time.

“It's a little more... It would imply something a little more serious than that,” he says gruffly. That strikes something, a memory, and suddenly Clarke remembers something Bellamy had said the night before- _I've never really had anyone..._ And, it's not like Clarke is really his girlfriend, but it's what everyone is going to think. She understands his reluctance, now, to put himself in that position.

“It doesn't bother me,” Clarke tells him, careful. “Unless it bothers you.”

“No.” His gaze is a hot brand, intense, and Clarke can't quite read his expression, but it's strong. “It doesn't bother me either.”

“Right.” She's feels a little shaky. That probably has more to do with her grumbling stomach than with the look in Bellamy's eyes, right?

“So, breakfast?” Bellamy asks, and Clarke nods quickly, relieved to take the escape from their close proximity and the intensity of his eyes.

 

The chambers Bellamy leads her to look less like somewhere you'd expect to find breakfast and more like a mad scientist's lab. They enter a large room, all rough stone, packed to the brim with tables strewn with beakers, gears, pliers, leather gloves, and more.

“What is this place?”

“Elden's lab. His rooms are on the other side,” Bellamy explains, weaving a path through the tables with a practiced ease. There's a door set into the back wall, heavy wood like most of the doors Clarke's seen in the court, but this one has deep gouges, odd splashes of paint, and what looks like chemical burns on it. Bellamy shoves it open without a pause.

The room beyond has a roaring fireplace, several plush sofas, and a huge wooden table piled with food. Clarke's stomach lurches in hunger at the sight of it. She's so focused on a plate of delicious looking sausages, that she doesn't even notice the room's occupants for a moment.

Elden is standing behind the table, holding a plate, wings folded carefully behind him. He looks up at their entrance, halfway through spearing what looks like a roasted potato with a fork. Raven is sprawled on one of the sofas, an empty plate on the floor beside her. Perched by her feet is a fine boned boy with his nose buried in a book and a gangly boy with scales on his arms and a pair of goggles on his head.

“Clarke, meet Jasper.” The boy with the goggles gives a little salute in her direction. “And Monty.” She gets an absent wave from the other.

“As for this one,” Bellamy strides across the space and claps a hand on Elden's shoulder. Up close, his lack of eyebrows are even more startling. “I don't think you've been officially introduced. Elden, this is Clarke.”

“I know who she is,” he says around a mouthful of potato. His eyes linger on the pendant around her neck, but he doesn't comment.

“Oh, so you _were_ paying attention during the meeting yesterday?” Bellamy asks, a teasing edge to his voice.

“Fuck off,” Elden says, but it's mild. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Clarke was hungry.” Bellamy nods at the table groaning under the weight of dishes. “And I just thought just _maybe_ you might have some human safe food...”

Elden glances at the table like it's an afterthought. “Ah.”

“Monty and Jasper are human,” Bellamy explains to Clarke, ushering her to the table and handing her a plate. “And Elden has a terrible sense of how much food a human actually needs.” He starts piling mashed potatoes onto his plate.

“Jasper's human?” Clarke asks, thinking about the shiny scales she'd seen on his arms.

“Yeah, but the genius club here are always using themselves for experiments.” Bellamy leans across the table to scoop up some sausage.

“How did they end up here?” Clarke has a hard time imagining most humans would really want to _stay_. The fae and this court are beautiful, but being a human means being a target. She doesn't know why anyone would choose to live like that.

“They don't talk about it much.” Bellamy begins buttering some toast. For claiming Clarke was the hungry one, he certainly doesn't seem to be holding back. “From what I've gathered they sort of grew up like brothers, got into some trouble, and somehow ended up here. Raven and Elden were more than happy to have another couple of people who could understand their nerd speak.”

“But what do they _do_?”

Bellamy grins. “They'll be more than happy to show you.”

 

It turns out what they do is create inventions that may be incredibly impressive and may cause severe bodily harm. Jasper's goggles seem to have multiple functions including seeing through glamours and identifying human safe food and drink. Monty walks Clarke through a series of plants he's growing that can do everything from allow you to levitate to instantly change your hair color. Raven proudly shows off some magical grenades that only explode when their specified target is nearby.

“We think,” Monty qualifies. “They may have some trouble differentiating family members.”

“It's been hard to get volunteers to test them,” Jasper adds.

Bellamy shoots Clarke a private look. “I wonder why,” he murmurs in her ear, too low for the others to hear.

“Oh, this one's cool!” Elden grabs a small disk shaped object off a table and hands it to Clarke. “See, Bellamy, you stand over there.” He waves him in a direction.

“Why?” Bellamy asks, suspicious.

Elden rolls his eyes. “Just trust me. It's harmless.”

“You don't have any eyebrows,” Bellamy says, flat.

“I told him to leave the explosives to me,” Raven sighs, “but he's almost as bull headed as you are.”

“This isn't dangerous,” Elden insists and Bellamy reluctantly goes to stand where Elden directed as the others also spread out across the room. “Okay, so look, there's a little switch here.”  
The button is almost undetectable, but the moment Clarke presses it, the face of the disk lights up, and a vague outline of the room begins to glow, hard blue lines. And where the others are standing light up, Bellamy and Raven green, Monty and Jasper red.

“So, see, this can map an area, detect life, and classify it by species. Fae are green, humans are red, and animals are purple. Non living objects show up blue, plants show up orange. The only thing is, you have to be really still to use it. They can move around,” he gestures at the others, “But whoever is holding it needs to be still. I'm still working on making its sensor less confused by movement.”

It's a cool gadget, but mostly Clarke finds it beautiful, all the bright glowing lines. “It's lovely,” Clarke tells him earnestly. Elden goes a bit red.

“Keep it. It's still a prototype, but I have loads of them lying around. Maybe you can figure out something useful for it.”

“Oh, I couldn't-”

“-Trust me, he doesn't need it,” Bellamy waves away Clarke's protest. “If he's made one, he's made fifty.”

She's not sure what she's done to warrant a gift, but she pockets the disk anyway, giving Elden a smile.

“They like showing off,” Bellamy says quietly to her as he comes up beside her. “They don't get a lot of opportunities to do so.”

“Give her something useful,” Raven suggests, from across the room, “not just something pretty.”

“That could be useful!” Elden protests, offended.

“I know!” Monty snatches a vial off the nearest table. “This stuff destroys glamours and spells. Completely strips them away. I'm planning on developing enough that we can dip arrow heads and blades in it for the army on a mass scale, but I'm still trying to figure out how to produce it quickly.” He presses the vial into her hand. “Humans can never be too safe down here.”

The way he says it makes Clarke wonder what might have happened to him before he learned the tricks to defend himself.

“Thanks,” she tells him earnestly, sliding it into the pocket with the disk. She feels stronger, after a filling meal and armed with the gifts from Bellamy and his brother and friends.

 

They spend the morning lounging on the sofas and eating too much food from Elden's impressive spread, Monty and Raven debating the possibilities of various new wines, while Jasper and Elden tinker with some metal devices that Clarke isn't able to figure out the purpose of. It feels good to take a break, to just enjoy herself, even if it's a false sense of security.

The gentle tone of the day comes to an abrupt halt when Iver bursts into the room, clearly agitated. To be fair, it's something of a constant state with him, as far as Clarke's seen, but this is different, something more. Bellamy straightens, suddenly sharp, where moments before he'd been lounging lazily, flipping a silver coin between his knuckles.

“The king is calling an immediate war council.”

“A _war_ council? He's changed his mind?” Bellamys asks, eager.

“He's launching a full assault on Aithne's court,” Iver responds. His eyes are strained, his hair messy.

“Why?” Clarke knows this conversation isn't really meant for her, but something feels off.

Iver looks away, hesitates. “Caelen is missing.”

Bellamy leaps to his feet. “And you didn't lead with that?! Fuck, Iver, what the hell is wrong with you? We need to go _now_.” Clarke scrambles up and practically jogs after the princes as they leave Elden's quarters behind.

By the time they make it to the war room, the king looks ready to kill. He's pacing, eyes flashing, fists clenched, and as much as it terrifies her, Clarke thinks it also humanizes him in a weird way, proof that he does actually care about his children.

“Ready the troops,” he growls at Bellamy, the moment they're across the threshold. They're the first to arrive, none of the other councilors filling the room. For all that Bellamy's been ready to jump headfirst into this, he suddenly seems reluctant, eying his father warily.

“Are you sure you've thought this through?” he questions, and Clarke nearly kicks him. This is what they wanted, why would he be changing his mind now?

“ _Have I-_ ” The king's voice is thunderous, furious, but Bellamy doesn't flinch, standing before him with shoulders squared. “Queen Aithne has taken my _son_. She has gone too far. I want her to understand what happens when she _dares_ to oppose me so directly.”

“You were all for an assault yesterday,” Iver says from Clarke's right, eyes narrowed at his brother. “And now our brother is in danger and you don't want to defend him?”

But Clarke thinks she understands, now, Bellamy's reluctance, because the full situation has caught up to her, and... It doesn't make sense. It doesn't fit with what they'd thought Aithne's plan was.

“ _Yesterday_ we had every indication that Aithne didn't want to engage us directly. _Today_ she's proven otherwise,” Bellamy snaps back.

“You think it's a trap,” Clarke concludes. All three men turn to look at her, an intruder in the family dispute.

“It's _obviously_ a trap,” Bellamy responds, fixing his eyes on his father. “She wants us to be emotional and stupid about this. I'm not making that mistake again.”

She wants to ask what that means, but it's not the time. From the looks on both his father and brother's faces, they already know. Whatever it is it doesn't seem to temper his father's anger.

“Mobilize the troops,” the king says, cold. “Our allies will come to our aid. Aithne has no idea what she's started.”

Bellamy clenches his jaw. _Say no_ , Clarke thinks, _just say no_. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Iver watching him, and there's something odd about the look on his face, like he can't decide what he wants Bellamy's answer to be.

Finally, after a breathless moment that seems to stretch forever, Bellamy gives a stiff nod to his father, then turns on his heel and strides for the door. Clarke trails him, quiet all the way back to his rooms, but not a moment longer.

“Why did you give in to him?” she bursts out, the moment the door is closed behind him.

“I didn't have a choice,” Bellamy grinds out, ripping open his desk drawer and snatching out some paper that he begins to hastily scrawl on.

“That's bullshit! You didn't even try-”

“-He'd already called on our allies,” Bellamy's voice has gone calm, and yet his words are scalding. “If we back out of that, it'll be seen as a sign of weakness, we'll lose support. And once our allies have abandoned us, Aithne will launch her own attack, with her own allies, some of whom might be the exact same ones we currently have on our side. At this point, the only choice is to go through with the assault and hope our numbers will be enough to overcome whatever it is that she's planning.”

“What are you writing?” Clarke asks. She wants to refute his words, wants to argue with him that walking directly into what he knows is a trap isn't the way to handle this, but she doesn't know enough about the political connections between the courts to find a better option.

“An order for weapons from Elden. And for Raven.”

“Raven?”

“She's a master with explosives, but I don't trust anyone else to set them. She'll have to come.”

“You're planning to use _explosives_?”

“If we have to.” There's something different about Bellamy, so far removed from the boy she's grown up with, so far removed even from the way he'd been this morning. He's all taut lines and resigned determination. He's going to see this through, and that scares her.

How had they gone from searching for a missing girl to at the forefront of a war? Clarke has a hard time understanding how they got here, how it's possible that just a few miles away, the sleepy little town she's lived in her whole life is plodding along like nothing has changed. And she's down here, somewhere deep underground, masquerading as a princess.

“I have to go deal with the troops and prepare to leave.” Bellamy hesitates, and for a moment she sees that boy, the one she started this journey with. He's gone too fast. “I can have Monty and Jasper take you home.”

It shouldn't surprise her, that he expects her to leave, but it does. She doesn't have a place in this, doesn't know anything about how any of this works, but something revolts wildly in her chest at the suggestion.

“I'm not going home,” she says, firm. She's not going anywhere. Not yet.

“Clarke.” He can use that stern tone all he likes, he's not her keeper.

“I'm seeing this through, Bellamy. And if you won't bring me, I'll just get Raven to do it.”

That muscle in his jaw jumps. He wants to argue with her, she can see it in the way his shoulders lift, and his fingers flex. She thinks he's going to.

“Have it your way, then.” And winning doesn't feel like such a victory when he's looking at her like that, like she's a stranger that he doesn't have time to deal with. But Clarke is nothing if she's not stubborn, and she's not going to be the first to break. She lifts her chin and meets his eyes. If this is how it's going to be, she'll deal with it.

“I will, thanks.”

Bellamy leaves the room without another word.

* * *

 

 

Raven shows up twenty minutes later with Elden in tow. The look she gives Clarke is half amused, half exasperated. “You've put Bellamy in a rotten mood.”

“He did that all on his own,” Clarke says, prim.

“I don't doubt it,” Elden chimes in, flopping gracelessly onto Bellamy's bed. “But it would be nice if he wouldn't take it out on the rest of us.”

“Are you coming too, then?” she changes the subject.

“It would seem so.”

“What? Are you my personal guard or something?” Clarke bristles, and... It's not like she knows anything about fighting, she doesn't plan to actually be close enough to the battle for that to be an issue, but she can see the logic in it, and it still rubs her the wrong way, like she's a child that needs a babysitter.

Elden snorts. “Hardly. I'm not exactly the most useful in a fight.” He splays out his scarred wing, and flaps it slightly at her, it hangs awkwardly from his body, the motion limited. “But I'm hardly going to do a trial run of our weapon prototypes with no supervision.”

“And what am I?” Raven asks, “chopped liver?”

Elden waves her off.

“He's just worried about Bellamy,” she tells Clarke. “And too much of a child to admit it.”

Bellamy is his little brother. Clarke knew it, in the factual sense, but it sinks in then, in the tightness around Elden's eyes, that he's watching his little brother march off to a fight he can do nothing about. It hits her, suddenly, how very real and dangerous this is. It had all been theoretical and fantastical, wrapped up in the disbelief that still tinges the past couple of days for her. It had felt more like a dream, like an alternate reality that she would wake up from. But it's not. And Bellamy has a high chance of coming out of this worse for wear, if he comes out of it at all.

“Oh, God, not you too,” Raven groans, and Clarke's not sure what expression is on her face, but whatever it is, Raven's read it. “Bellamy's a big boy. He'll be fine.”

“He's literally walking into a trap designed to kill,” Clarke snaps, wishing she'd said something else to Bellamy before he'd stormed out. Will she get a chance to talk to him again before they launch their assault?

“We should go,” Elden interrupts, sitting up and tucking his wings close to his body. “I want Raven to have a chance to scope the area for good places to plant some explosives before the whole army shows up and gives us away.”

Raven grins, feral. “They'll never know what hit them.”

 

The border of Aithne's court is about a hundred miles away, beginning with a rolling wood of thin silver trees with leaves the color of blood, even in the summer heat. Clarke isn't sure how they got here, Elden's thumb pressed into her forehead, the sting of magic that's becoming familiar, and a blur of colors that makes Clarke so dizzy she nearly throws up right there in the pretty fae forest.

Raven grimaces at her. From there, they walk. They cross a field of tall golden grass and a stream with water so clear Clarke can see straight to the bottom. There are birds in the trees that feel too bright, vibrant in a way that's unnatural, and Elden catches her watching them.

“The necklace is removing all the glamour,” he comments. “Any other human would just see nature as usual.”

She wonders if the woods around her hometown will look so brilliantly different if she were to wear the necklace there. Is Bellamy's father's territory this beautiful? Has she grown up so close to this without even knowing it?

“There,” Raven says, and Clarke stumbles to a halt. For a moment, she sees nothing but woods across another field, but then everything shifts just slightly, and a large wooden archway comes into focus, intricately carved with flowers and birds and wicked looking thorns. She can see through it, to the other side, but the woods behind it are distorted, like looking through frosted glass.

“Aithne's court is through there. Of course she's too vain to hide it properly.” Raven is grinning, like there is nowhere in the world she'd rather be. “I'm going to get a closer look.” She takes off before either Clarke or Elden can protest.

“Come on,” Elden nods his head toward a hill sheltered by a few oak trees that takes them further from Aithne's court. “We'll be out of the way up there when the army arrives.”

By the time they hike to the top of the hill, Clarke is sweaty and red faced. The air is thick and humid, and the magic of being able to see the jewel toned birds and the silver and red forest is less exciting than it was before.

They sit on the grass, Clarke sighing at the coolness of the ground that seeps past her thin skirts. Elden lounges back against one of the oak trees, his wings spread wide. It draws her attention yet again to their lopsided tilt.

“It happened when I was sixteen,” Elden answers her unspoken question. Clarke blushes, embarrassed for being caught looking.

“Sorry,” she murmurs.

Elden shrugs lazily. “I'm used to it. And if you're with Bellamy it'll probably come up at some point anyway.”

“Why?”

Raven is making her way up the hill toward them, and Clarke watches her progress, the sunlight bouncing off her wings and shining different colors.

“The idiot thinks it's his fault.” Elden rolls his eyes. “He was thirteen, and very impulsive. Our father had just declared his intentions to make Bellamy the commander of his armies someday, after seeing what he could do in his training. And Bellamy was a bit puffed up on how special that made him. What thirteen year old wouldn't have been?

“There had been some tensions with Queen Sable's court, and we were out, just being stupid teenage boys and Bellamy found evidence of some spies on our land. He wanted to go after them. So we went. But I've never been much good in a fight, even back then.” Elden shrugs, his eyes shadowed and far away. “He blames himself for it, but I'm his older brother. I should have brought him home. I shouldn't have indulged his need to prove himself to our father. It wasn't his job to protect me.”

It's become exceedingly clear to Clarke why Elden is Bellamy's favorite of his brothers. He may be absent minded and quirky, but he seems to genuinely adore his siblings, which is more than Clarke can say for Iver or Vali.

“I do miss flying, though,” Elden adds, almost as an afterthought.

“Well, we're working on that, aren't we?” Raven calls, hiking the last few yards up the hill and flopping down next to Clarke. “I've set the charges,” she informs them, “we can blow them whenever we want.”

“It's a last resort,” Elden reminds her.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” She still looks excited by the prospect.

The waiting goes very slow, and comes to an end abruptly. In between one breath and the next, empty field below them is suddenly hosting an army. _Bellamy's_ army, Clarke realizes with a jolt, recognizing him at the front lines, on foot. She stands up to get a better view.

The army isn't just foot soldiers and archers. There's row after row of armored fae mounted on horses. Or... at least, Clarke thinks they're horses. They're all black, and the light glints off of skin instead of hair, shiny and smooth in a way that reminds her of salamanders. Their manes and tales seem to defy gravity, floating in a ghostly manner like they're underwater, instead of in a field in the middle of the afternoon sun.

Just as suddenly as Bellamy's army arrived, Aithne's does as well, positioned across the field, protecting the carved arch. They're blinding in shining silver armor. It doesn't take long to spot the queen, mounted on a delicate white horse that actually _looks_ like a horse. Even from a distance, Clarke can tell she's beautiful, smooth skin, long dark hair, very human looking, if it weren't for the delicately curled horns that remind Clarke of a ram.

“They say she was born with a tail, and she cut it off because she didn't think it was beautiful enough,” Raven steps up beside Clarke.

It occurs to Clarke, that if any human stumbled across this scene and could actually see it, Bellamy's men with their creepy black horses and black armor wouldn't look like the heroes, facing off against Aithne's shining army.

Clarke watches Bellamy, standing before his army, a few paces ahead of his front lines. He's wearing his leather armor, but he carries no weapons and that terrifies and confuses her. Anything could happen. At this distance, the enemy archers could hit him. One well placed arrow and he'd be down, just like that. No one takes the shot.

“They wouldn't hit him,” Raven says from beside her. “He'd see it coming from a mile away. His reputation precedes him. It would be a waste of their resources.”

Bellamy raises a hand and the front lines snap to attention. It happens between one blink and the next- Bellamy's standing, alert, poised, and then suddenly where Bellamy was there is no longer a man, but a large, sleek black wolf.

A cheer of “Faolan! Faolan!” rises among Bellamy's ranks.  
“Little wolf,” Clarke breathes, Bellamy's childhood nickname slotting into place, as well as the humor behind it. She should have wondered, all his brothers have animal aspects, but he'd seemed so human.

“Not so little these days, but as a child it was exceptionally fitting,” Elden comments.

And then he's off like a shot, streaking for the enemy lines, his mounted warriors surging forward to keep up with him, a wave of weapons sharpened to kill, and even deadlier smiles of terror and glee.

Aithne's army moves to meet them and in an instant they collide. It turns from organized lines of soldiers to a melee very fast. A whirlwind of violence so visceral it takes Clarke's breath away.

She loses track of Bellamy almost immediately. He's a shadow, that weaves in and out of the chaos, a flash of teeth and fur. She strains her eyes searching for him, but he's impossible to follow. Instead, she turns her eyes to the queen; she's stayed stationary, letting her army surge forward in front of her. She watches the horror with cool, impassive eyes.

She has a smaller force, and it doesn't take long for Bellamy's men to start to press into her, but she doesn't move, still as stone.

“Something's wrong,” Clarke murmurs.

Raven's brow is furrowed as well, squinting at the field like she can work out Aithne's plan just from sheer determination. “The archers,” she says, and Clarke follows her gaze to see that Bellamy's archers have advanced far enough to have a clean shot at the queen.

They take it, all at once. A volley of arrows, all aimed at one woman, too many to dodge. She doesn't flinch, doesn't move, and a moment before they should pierce her skin, they fall away, as if directed by some invisible force.

“A protection spell.” Elden leans forward a little, sounding fascinated. “But I've never seen one that strong.”

The archers let off another volley of arrows, and still the queen makes no move to protect herself. The spell is too strong, and the arrows fall away, ineffectual. She's laughing, now, no longer stoic, her head thrown back, exposing her throat as if daring someone to take a shot at it. Her smile says this is all a game.

Clarke's stomach is churning, uneasy. They knew this was a trap, from the moment Caelen disappeared that seemed obvious, but... She doesn't understand _how_. She can't figure out what exactly the queen wants, and it makes her sick to her stomach. Because the queen's men are dying. She's outnumbered, and taking heavy losses, and yet she only seems pleased with herself, even as she's forced backwards toward the intricate wooden arch.

“This is what she wants,” Clarke says, wishing she knew why.

“I don't know, it doesn't look like it's going well for her,” Elden responds. And he's right, he's right in the sense that her forces are slowly retreating, closer and closer to the arch and their court. Even though Aithne seems untouchable, it won't do her much good if her army is slaughtered. So what is she playing at?

Aithne raises a hand, and her troops fall further back, some disappearing into the arch, back into their court, but her eyes aren't on her men, they're fixed on something else. Clarke follows her gaze and it leads her straight to Bellamy. And that's when she understands.

He's ahead of the rest of his troops, tracking a line straight toward the queen, and she's carefully pinning him in. This isn't about winning a battle. This is about Bellamy. And it's too late for Clarke to do anything about it. In the chaos, he can't see it, he doesn't know.

“She's trapping Bellamy!”

Raven's eyes sharpen, and Clarke knows, now that she's drawn her attention, that she sees it too. “Shit.”

Clarke wants to cry out, to warn him, but he's much too far away. And he's surrounded. She sees the moment he realizes it, his ears flicking back and his lips pulling up in a snarl. But instead of trying to cut a path back to his men, he fixes his eyes on the queen, and pounces.

The protection spell Aithne had put on herself means he doesn't touch her. But her horse is a different story. It goes down when Bellamy barrels into it, but Aithne is quick, light on her feet, and she's up in an instant. She doesn't even look for Bellamy, instead, she takes three steps backwards, through the arch and Bellamy- Bellamy goes after her.

Clarke knows what he's thinking- he was already surrounded, so if he's going out, he's going to try like _Hell_ to take Aithne with him. Which... of _course_ that what he's done, but it doesn't stop the fact that she's holding in a scream of frustration at his impulsivity. Aithne's army collapses backwards, to the arch, driven by Bellamy's men, who are overwhelming them, but when they reach it, they slam into it, as if the opening has gone solid. It's _sealed_. Next to her, Elden hisses in a breath. The entrance to her court is cut off. Aithne is sacrificing her army to trap Bellamy.

Two thoughts immediately run through Clarke's head. The first is that Aithne's smaller force makes sense now. The second is that, this means she wants Bellamy alive. And _that_ means they have time to save him.

What remains of Aithne's army has been completely overwhelmed, and Bellamy's men are attacking the arch, but it seems futile, their efforts simply bouncing off.

“She's enchanted it,” Elden breathes.

“What does that mean? An enchantment? It's different than a spell?” Elden had called the protection Aithne had cast over herself a spell, but the arch an enchantment.

“Enchantments are more powerful, trickier, and only wear off when the caster chooses to let them go, or they die. And you can't enchant living beings, only objects.”

“Raven, can we use the explosives?”

“Sure,” she says, “I could bring the whole Goddamn place down on their heads, but...”

But there wouldn't be any survivors and Bellamy is in there. And Caelen and Holly. And probably Dane and Cowan. It's not worth the losses.

“So that's a no,” Clarke reasons, staring at the wooden arch and the soldiers still battering away at it, trying to break through. Any time the fae get near, they're repelled. It makes her wonder... They'll need the army, if they have chance of getting Bellamy out. And they can't take down the arch from the outside, but maybe... Clarke is beginning to see another option.

“The enchantment, it's designed to keep everything out?”

Elden frowns, “Well, no. Enchantments are tricky and very specific. You have to directly specify every piece of them. If she designed it to keep everything out, then they wouldn't get oxygen and they'd suffocate. There'd be no sunlight. So it's more likely she specified what not to let in, instead of the other way around.”

“And do you suppose she bothered to put humans on that list?” Clarke asks.

Elden blinks at her, understanding dawning on his face. “I doubt it.”

And for the first time since she set foot in the fae courts, Clarke feels truly powerful.

“I think I have a plan.”

* * *

 

“Bellamy's going to fucking hate this,” Elden grumbles, not for the first time.

“Well, he's going to be _alive_ to hate it, so that's what I give a fuck about,” Clarke snaps, and Elden flinches. She didn't mean to imply he doesn't care about Bellamy's life; of course he does, that's his brother in there. Clarke is just stressed, and a little terrified. If this doesn't work, she's definitely dead. It's not a comforting thought. But it's going to work.

She and Elden are sitting on the hill, waiting for Raven to return. She'd taken the flat disk Clarke had been carrying in her pocket, the one Elden had given her just that morning.

“I _told_ you it could be useful,” Elden had muttered under his breath when Clarke had passed it over to Raven. And it might be. If it can see past Aithne's enchantment.

Raven returns fifteen minutes later, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “It looks like past the arch is some sort of entrance hall- deserted, and then right past that, what I'm guessing is a throne room.

“You're guessing?” It's not that Clarke doesn't trust her, it's just... Well, she'll be the one who ends up dead if this doesn't work, not Raven.

“It's not like this device comes with labels. It's just shapes. Anyway the second room is _packed_ with fae, probably more of her army and her court, but there's a big space down the middle, which is what makes me think it's a throne room. Aithne is very formal. She'd want space to have people publicly approach her throne.”

“Any humans?”

“None.” So that means Holly isn't in there. But that doesn't mean she isn't in the court somewhere. And she doesn't need Holly to be there for what she's planning. It's probably better if she isn't. Clarke takes a deep breath. The rest of this relies on her.

“Okay, I'm ready,” she tells Raven, who is looking at her hesitantly.

“Bellamy is seriously not going to like this.”

“Yeah, well, Bellamy isn't here.” It has already taken too much time, talking them both into this. “Come on, just do it.”

“Just remember this was your idea,” Raven says, “not mine.” And before Clarke can respond, Raven's fist connects with her face.

It hurts. _Fuck_ , it hurts a lot. She really hopes Raven didn't shatter her cheekbone because _fuck_ that's what it feels like. Tears spring at the corners of Clarke's eyes, but she grits her teeth and straightens. She nods at Raven, who takes another swing. This one splits her lip. The third glances off her jaw and makes her teeth rattle.

“Okay, that's enough,” Elden steps in, then.

“What about-” Clarke begins, gasping through the tears she hasn't been able to hold back. It's okay, she's supposed to be upset.

“-No. That's enough.” And Raven nods along with Elden's words this time, looking guilty. “You look terrible, so mission accomplished.”

Clarke grins grimly, feeling blood trickle down her chin. “Perfect.”

 

Bellamy's army watches her warily as she marches through them, escorted by Elden and Raven. Clarke's mind is alight with worries, all the ways this could go wrong.

“How do we know she isn't watching what's happening out here?” Clarke asks Elden, even though he's already explained, twice.

“All of our sources indicate she's not. She's got what she wants in there; that's what she's focused on.” It's not the most reassuring answer.

“Right.” Clarke stops just in front of the arch. It looks like nothing. All she sees on the other side is the forest.

“You don't have to do this,” Elden says, and it reminds her so much of Bellamy, she nearly tears up. He's right- she doesn't. But she's going to.

“See you soon,” Clarke replies, and then she steps forward, through the arch.

The room on the other side isn't what she was expecting. It's all white marble, with delicate crystal chandeliers. There's nothing in the room, an atrium of sorts, and just across from her are two massive golden doors. Lucky for her, at least she thinks it is, they're open. If she'd had to open them herself, there would be no way she'd be able hide her entrance, even with the spell Elden had pressed into her brow, the one to help her avoid unwanted attention.

It seems to be working, as she slips into the room, which is full of tall willowy fae with glowing skin, dressed in silk dresses and shiny armor that seems to be more for show than protection. This is Aithne's court, beautiful, blindingly so. She edges through the crowd, holding her breath as the eyes that turn to her slide away as if she's not there. She sends thanks to any and every deity she can think of that Elden knew what he was doing.

There is, Clarke realizes after a moment, in fact, a magnificent throne at the other end of the room, carved from white marble and shot through with streaks of gold. It's on a raised dais. Aithne is not seated on the throne. Instead, she stands before it, looking down. Down, at Bellamy, who is no longer a wolf, kneeling, hands bound, before the dais.

He's covered in blood, though it's hard to tell how much of it is his. It's smeared viciously around his mouth, and Clarke is yet again struck by the thought that to an outside observer, beautiful spotless Aithne before her throne would look like a goddess, and Bellamy a demon.

“-to persuade you.” Clarke's close enough now to hear what Aithne is saying, as she paces back and forth on the dais, her dark hair swinging every time she turns.

“You're wasting your time.” Bellamy's voice is raw, edged with pain, but as proud as ever.

“Your father's rule is coming to an end,” Aithne responds, ignoring his comment. “One way or another, he will not be a king for long. What _I_ need is the proper prince to replace him.”

“You don't want that to be me,” Bellamy grits out.

“Oh, I don't know about that.” Aithne smiles a pretty, secret smile. “Iver is the obvious choice, yes. He's been fairly easy to manipulate thus far. He fears so deeply that your father prefers _you,_ that he'll do just about anything to try to prevent being passed up for the throne. It was almost laughable, how quickly he spilled information to me that he really, really shouldn't have.”

Bellamy's shoulders tighten and Clarke can nearly feel the waves of anger rolling off of him. Iver is a traitor, his own brother. Iver is why they're where they are now.

“Of course, he didn't realize what he was doing. He thought he was spiting you, not helping me destroy your father and bring his court to heel. And while I'm confident Iver would see reason, would learn to work with me, he's too easy to manipulate. Someone else might take advantage of that. He's blinded by ambition, and that I cannot trust.  
“And you... Well, I've heard quite a lot about you, Little Wolf. My spies tell me at least half your father's army is loyal to you, above any other, even their own king. How easy would it be, to take his throne with half his own army and mine at your back? He's getting old and foolish. He doesn't listen to his advisors. He let's his temper get the best of him.

“Elden is useless. Vali equally so. Dane doesn't have a head for politics, and Cowan doesn't inspire loyalty. Caelen is too young. And so, you see, that leaves you, as my best option.”

Bellamy laughs bitterly. “You want me to betray my family?”

Aithne smirks. “I want you to ally with me, and in return I'll spare you brothers. I already have Caelen and the twins. Elden and Vali are no threat to me. Iver will have to be disposed of, like I said, too ambitious, but that's hardly a bad deal. Five of your brothers lives, or none at all.”

Clarke's heard enough, and if she waits too much longer, she's afraid Bellamy will say something to _really_ piss Aithne off. The queen might have spies, but those spies had clearly failed to grasp Bellamy's nature. He's not going to aid Aithne, and he'll die trying to stop her. And right now, him being noble is that last thing Clarke needs.

This is it, her last chance to back out. She could slip back through the crowd, back out of this place, and go home and lock her doors and pretend this never happened. But Bellamy's kneeling on the floor, chin tilted up in a proud defiant gesture and... she really couldn't.

She stumbles out of the crowd and into the open space before the dais, feeling the moment Elden's spell snaps, and everyone's eyes find her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Bellamy lurch forward momentarily, before he stops, eyes turning away. He's trying to protect her, pretending he doesn't know her, and it's admirable. And entirely unnecessary.

A guard leaps forward and grasps Clarke by the arm, as Aithne recovers from her surprise.

“What's this?” the queen asks, her eyes sliding over Clarke and then up to the big golden doors. Understanding passes over her face, the realization she hadn't included humans in the enchantment.

Clarke doesn't have to pretend to be frightened. The fear that sinks into her bones and makes her tremble is very real. It's all or nothing. Either this works or she's dead.

“What's a little human doing here?” Aithne asks, her voice sweet, but her smile cruel. She takes a step toward Clarke, and Bellamy shifts just slightly, like he can't help himself.

Unlike Bellamy, Clarke doesn't try to hide the reason she's come, instead, she lets her eyes travel to him, she lets herself feel everything in that moment, her fear, her desperation to save Bellamy, the pain in her her cheekbone and her lip. She knows how she must look, a young, injured human girl, looking desperately to Aithne's prisoner, crazy with love, crazy enough to come stumbling into the lion's den for him.

The queen smiles. “I see.” And she does, she sees exactly what Clarke wants her to see. She takes another step toward Clarke, waving away the guard who has hold of Clarke's elbow. “Does Faolan have a human play thing?”

Bellamy's lifted his head to look at her now, and Clarke sees the fury in his eyes, the absolute raging inferno that he is helpless in this situation. He wants to tear the queen apart.

“Hhhhmmm, what sort of fun can we have with you?” the queen muses, focused on Clarke. Her eyes light up, and she lifts one hand, snaps her fingers.

Nothing happens.

The queen frowns and Clarke realizes, suddenly, that she must be trying to glamour her, but it doesn't work because-

“Ah,” Aithne's eyes have found the pendant around Clarke's neck. “How sweet,” she coos, “the little wolf thought he could protect you.”

Aithne strides across the remaining space between her and Clarke, yet again waving away the guard that tries to put himself between them as protection for his queen. Clarke fights back a smile.

“I may not be able to glamour you, but that's of little consequence.” Aithne grasps Clarke's wrist with a bruising grip, drawing her close. “Humans break so easily.”

 _And fae_ , Clarke thinks with triumph roaring in her chest, _are so very arrogant._

“So, what do you say, little prince? Save your brothers and your human? Or watch them all die. I'll make sure this one goes extra slow.”

Bellamy's eyes are on Clarke's face, searching, desperate to understand what she means to do, why she's come here. But he does not speak. He trusts her.

His silence seems to irritate Aithne and she drags Clarke even closer, her fingernails drawing blood. Bellamy makes a muffled sort of strangled sound from the ground, but now Clarke can't help it, she's smiling, a cold vicious smile that belongs on the face of a victor. It's perfect. Aithne might be good at laying traps, but so is Clarke.

With her free hand, she grasps the dagger strapped to her thigh and brings it up, plunging toward Aithne's neck. The queen is faster than Clarke, and she sees it coming, her expression curls into a derisive sneer at Clarke's poor attempt at an assassination, but she makes no move to block the knife, as she's made no move to block any assault on her person all day, an arrogant, foolish display of power.

The blade sinks into her neck fast, so easy, and when Clarke wrenches it back out, blood spatters the spotless marble floor and the front of Clarke's dress. The sneer turns into shock. And all around the room the soldiers are frozen, immobile, as the queen sinks to her knees, grasping helplessly at her throat as blood spills between her fingers.

The knife in Clarke's hand is thick with her blood, so much of it that the glossy sheen Monty's serum had given the blade is all but obscured. And before anyone in the hall seems to digest what has happened, Bellamy's army bursts through the doors, the enchantment on the arch broken.

* * *

 

She doesn't get a chance to see Bellamy for hours after the battle ends. Moments after Aithne had collapsed, he'd leapt to his feet, pulling Clarke out of the middle of the room, and against a back wall. Aithne's soldiers were distracted by the invasion of Bellamy's army and paid them little attention. She'd used the knife, wet with Aithne's blood, to cut his hands free.

He'd grasped her face in his hands, his thumb ghosting over what must be a ghastly bruise on her cheekbone, just gazing at her. “You're incredible,” he'd said, his smile blinding.

“I wouldn't say _incredible,_ exactly. Cunning, or-”

“-I cannot tell a lie, Clarke.” His face had gone from playful to stern very fast. “Incredible, but never ever do this again.”

And even though there had been a battle raging just behind them, Clarke had laughed.

“Not planning on it.”

For a moment, she'd thought he might kiss her, but instead, he'd shaken his head, and grinned at her. “Let's get you the hell out of here.”

He'd delivered her to Raven and Elden outside the arch, ten minutes later, and had ignored her protests about returning to help his men finish off the battle, and she hadn't seen him since.

She supposes there's been a lot to do. She doesn't know what's happened to Iver, but he's definitely in trouble. She'd caught Elden in passing, and he'd been able to tell her that Caelen and Holly were found and unharmed. But that's as much information as has been provided for her.

And now, hours later, someone's finally thought to draw a bath and have it delivered to Bellamy's rooms for her. She's covered in so much dirt and blood, it's a massive relief to strip off her clothes and climb into the warm water. Everything hurts, but particularly bad is the throbbing in her cheek. Raven knows how to pack a punch.

She must fall asleep in the bath because when she wakes up, the water's gone cool and her hair is nearly dry from the vigorous scrubbing she'd given it. She's still exhausted, and she plans to crawl into Bellamy's bed and sleep just as soon as she gets dry and puts on her pajamas.

Clarke's only just stepped out of the bath, towel wrapped around her, when the door opens. Bellamy strides in, only to stop short when he sees Clarke, standing by the bath in only a towel.

“Sorry,” he apologizes immediately, but he seems rooted to the floor, his eyes stuck on her. Somewhere in the past few hours he's clearly found time for a bath as well, and he's no longer covered in blood, nor dressed in his armor. Instead, he's wearing a black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants and no shoes, just like any normal high school boy might in his bedroom at home. It's so absurdly human that Clarke nearly laughs, but ends up wincing instead when it pulls at her cut lip.

Bellamy frowns, not missing anything, and takes one step toward her before pausing. “I can take care of that, if you want.”

She thinks she should feel uncomfortable, standing here in only a towel, but she isn't. So she walks up to him, confident and ready for it, when he cups her cheek and presses his thumb to her forehead. It stings, but the pain isn't half as bad as the throbbing in her cheek that slowly fades away, leaving her sighing in relief. Bellamy's hand lingers, his fingers curling around the back of her neck, and his thumb sweeping over her cheekbone, where the pain is gone, but the bruise remains.

“I can't believe you did that,” he says, soft.

“Well, technically Raven did that.”

Bellamy shakes his head. “Not just _this_ , all of it.”

“Someone had to,” she says. That may not technically be true, but she's getting a little uncomfortable with all the praise. She's proud of herself, but she's not sure how to accept anyone else's pride in her.

Clarke feels a blush begin to creep up her cheeks, because the way he's looking at her, it's just... well, it's a lot. She wants to kiss him, to _finally_ kiss him, and the way he's gazing at her, she thinks he might do it, might lean in the way he'd begun to just that morning.

Instead, he takes a step back. “I'll, um, let you get dressed.” He seems flustered all of a sudden and he's backing to the door, eyes still on her, and Clarke thinks that she's about done with almosts. So she does something that's either very smart or very stupid. She drops the towel.

Bellamy freezes, and Clarke takes a couple steps toward him, before she loses her confidence. “I was kind of thinking,” she begins, as she stops before him, “that instead, you could get undressed.”

“That...” Bellamy's voice comes out low and rough and sends shivers down her spine. “That sounds like a better idea.”

And then he kisses her. It's about time.

 

It only occurs to Clarke later, when she and Bellamy are both sweaty and sated, that she'd jumped him so fast, she'd forgotten to ask about what exactly is going on. What's happened to Iver? Is Holly home? Is Caelen alright?

“Give me a moment to catch my breath,” Bellamy groans, when Clarke bombards him with the questions, but he's smiling, and he's more relaxed than she's ever seen him. Getting laid probably has something to do with that.

“I've been waiting all day,” Clarke pouts.

“You could have started with the questions,” Bellamy points out, “instead of sex.”

Clarke looks at him slyly, letting herself really look, eyes trailing down from his wonderful, wonderful mouth, over his chest and across his abs, and to where the sheets are bunched around his waist. “I really couldn't have.”

Bellamy laughs, bright and pleased, and she wants him like this always. “Okay,” he concedes. “Holly has been safely returned home. Caelen is shaken, but fine. And Iver... Well, he wasn't exactly _plotting_ with Aithne, apparently, but it was pretty close. My father's sending him to our uncle in Europe. Not permanently, but apparently he thinks Iver's in need of some penance in the form of a few months locked away with our batty old uncle. As for the line of succession... He hasn't made any sort of announcement. I think he wants to make sure Iver is motivated to try to be better.”

“And if he doesn't name Iver, will it be you?” Clarke isn't sure how to feel about that, because from what she's seen of Bellamy's brothers, he's definitely the best choice, but she's also not sure he _wants_ it. She rolls over onto her stomach, her head turned to the side so she can watch him.

Bellamy considers her question, stretched out next to her, a distracting amount of skin showing. “Most likely, yes.”

“And what will you do?” Clarke questions.

“Hope it doesn't happen for a long, long time,” Bellamy responds. He reaches out and runs a finger down her spine, raising goosebumps in its wake.

“Was it Iver, who kidnapped Holly and Caelen?”

Bellamy's face darkens, but he keeps tracing patterns on her back with featherlight fingers. “No. It was Piritta.”

“Piritta?” Clarke thinks of Caelen's nursemaid, with her pink hair and gold wings and shy smile. She remembers the flowers blooming in Holly's room, and Caelen with flowers at his fingertips, being taught by Piritta. Of course, it would be easy for her to get to Caelen, but why Holly?

“She'd been spying for Aithne all along,” Bellamy sighs. “Apparently Holly's house backs up onto one of Caelen's favorite play spots and Piritta let the two become playmates. So when Aithne needed a human, she was easy to take.”

“But...” Clarke frowns, trying to piece it all together, “Why _did_ she need a human?”

“According to Piritta, it was just meant to be a misdirection, get us looking in one place, arguing over one thing, keep us busy while she was planning her real move.”

“Seems complicated.”

“Well, Aithne did have a flair for drama. She liked putting on a show, proving how much smarter she was than everyone else.” Bellamy's eyes warm. “But not you.”

“What can I say? I got sick of everyone down here underestimating me.”

“If they have half a brain, they'll never do that again,” Bellamy murmurs. “You're going to be a legend, Clarke. The human princess who slew a fae queen and brought her court to its knees.” He leans in and kisses her then, slow, taking his time.

“You scared the hell out me,” he tells her, when he pulls back.

“You started it,” Clarke retorts. “If you hadn't been so noble and self sacrificing I wouldn't have had to mount a rescue mission.” Clarke's mind wanders, weaving through the past day, how _full_ and unbelievable and intense it's been. She didn't know what she was getting herself into when she'd decided to stay, but she's glad she did. There's still one more thing she wants from it, though, a question to be answered.

“So, were you ever going to tell me about the wolf thing?” she asks.

Bellamy shrugs, a little sheepish. “It's not something I generally spring on people.”

“So, what's it like? Does it hurt? Can any of your brothers do it too? Or your dad?”

“It's just something I've always been able to do. I don't know. Most of my brothers got permanent aspects of various animals, most commonly deer from my father. But most of the time I just seem human. Apparently the king's grandfather had the same thing.”

“Can I see it?”

Bellamy startles. “You want me to be a wolf?”

“I only got a chance to see it at a distance,” Clarke explains. “I'm curious. You didn't change like I thought you would. No howling or bones cracking or anything.”

He snorts. “You've been watching too many movies; I'm not a werewolf. I'm half fae who happens to have a shape shifting ability into what happens to be a wolf.”

“You're pretty much a werewolf.”

And one instant he's glowering at her, and the next there's a massive black wolf in his place. Clarke lets out a surprised yelp at the unexpected change. She didn't know wolves could look smug, but Bellamy certainly does.

Glaring, Clarke reaches out a hand to sink her fingers into his fur. It's thick and soft. Before he can guess her intent, Clarke reaches up and ruffles his ears like she would if he were a pet dog. She grins at the resulting huff.

“You deserved that,” she tells him, now trailing her fingers through his fur. He must know it, too, because he only settles down a little more comfortably on the bed, yawning. The day is catching up to her as well, and she sinks down next to him, eyes heavy.

Clarke doesn't know when she fell asleep, her fingers curled in Bellamy's fur, but she's launched back to consciousness with a loud voice.

“-didn't take my brother for the kinky type, but here you have it. Bravo, big brother.” Vali is standing at the foot of Bellamy's bed, face shining with amusement. Just as Clarke places his taunting meaning, her naked next to Bellamy as a wolf, Bellamy launches to his feet, growling. Vali takes one step back, a flicker of fear on his face, as Bellamy is suddenly human again, the snarl still curling his lip.

“Get out.”

“I was only joking-”

“-Out,” Bellamy orders, and Clarke can hear the command in it again, the voice of the man who leads armies.

“The king demands your presence, both of you,” Vali says quickly, before he goes, closing the door decisively behind him.

They get dressed quietly, and Bellamy seems nervous and distracted, though he takes a moment to reach over and straighten Clarke's tiara. She's going to be really glad to get home to her normal wardrobe and stop wearing fancy dresses.

“What do you think he wants?” she asks.

“I don't know,” Bellamy admits, “that's what concerns me.”

They find the king in the throne room, which is more packed than usual. Despite the crowded room, it's easy for Bellamy and Clarke to make their way across it, the rest of the fae giving them a wide berth. It had always been like this for Bellamy, but now they aren't just looking at him, they're looking at _her_. She's the girl who killed a fae queen.

Bellamy's father is on his throne, as imperious and cool as ever, watching them with keen eyes. When they reach the edge of the dais, Bellamy gives a sharp bow and Clarke a shallow curtsy. The king waits a moment, the whole room quiet, before he speaks.

“Faolan, come kneel before me.” Bellamy hesitates, but does as he's told. “You've expressed, many times, your desire to continue your human schooling. As previously stated, I have agreed to this. However, due to recent events, I would like to specify. I grant you two decades, free from your court responsibilities. No more, no less than that. You may stand.”

Bellamy climbs to his feet and bows his head in thanks. The king waves him to stand at his side as he turns his attention to Clarke.

“Come, kneel before me,” he commands, and Clarke has little choice but to listen. It's the closest she's ever been to the king. It's unsettling, how much he would look like Bellamy, if it weren't for his eyes and the crown of antlers. His presence doesn't feel like Bellamy's; he has none of his son's warmth. There's something very human about Bellamy, even though he isn't.

“Princess Clarke,” the king's voice is soft, and all the more terrifying for it.

Clarke inclines her head in a slight bow. “King Torin.”

“You've proven to have quite the sharp mind, particularly for a human.”

From his place beside the throne Bellamy's muscles are taut, his jaw clenched. He told her not to draw attention to herself, but here she is, receiving praise from the king. She can't bring herself to regret it. She'd saved Bellamy's life, if getting noticed was the price to pay she'd do it, gladly.

“Thank you, My King.”

“I am, you know,” he says, somehow aloof and focused all at once, “your king, that is.” He reaches out to finger the silver chain at her neck. “For as long as you wear my son's pendant, you are under my protection, and therefore my subject. You did our kingdom a great service, and you saved the lives of my sons. Let it be known that I reward my loyal subjects.”

Before Clarke has a moment to prepare, to question what he means to do, the king's hand flashes up from the necklace and catches her face, his thumb pressing into her forehead. It burns, a sharp, furious pain under his finger. It burns so much that Clarke wants to scream, but she can't. She can't move a single muscle.

King Torin lifts his finger and the pain vanishes. Clarke wonders if she'll be forever branded on her brow. It's only then that she realizes how unnaturally quiet the room has gone. Instinctively her eyes seek out Bellamy. He looks shocked, then angry.

“To you, Princess Clarke, I give the gift of immortality,” the king says.

The room absolutely erupts then, so many voices speaking all at once, and as Clarke gets shakily to her feet, Bellamy appears at her side to steady her, and he pulls her from the dais and through door behind the throne. It's quiet on the other side, giving Clarke a moment to breathe.

“I'm sorry,” Bellamy says at once, his hands on her elbows and his eyes deeply concerned. “Shit, Clarke, I'm so sorry. I never thought he'd...”

“Make me immortal?” Clarke asks, nearly laughing at the absurdity of it. It's not possible. It doesn't feel real.

“No,” Bellamy's voice has gone quiet. “I've never seen him do that. It's a high honor and I can't help but think if I hadn't...”

“Hadn't what?” But she realizes his eyes are stuck on the pendant around her neck.

“You think he made me immortal because of this?” She touches the pendant.

“Because I gave it to you and you risked your life for mine.” There is shame in Bellamy's face that Clarke doesn't understand. It's... a lot to take in, her newfound immortality, but she's not so sure it's as terrible as Bellamy seems to think.

“What do you mean?”

Bellamy shakes his head, frustrated. “It was a gift, for both of us. A gift for you because to him, how could you _not_ want to be immortal? And for me because... Now you won't grow old and die and leave me behind. I'm so sorry he didn't ask you. He should have asked you, but it would never occur to him that it was anything but a wonderful gift.”

“I...” Clarke is reeling. It could be a good thing, couldn't it? She doesn't know how to process it yet. She isn't ready. Instead, she steps into Bellamy's arms, seeking something real and sure and comforting. Bellamy softens, the anger at his father evaporating, as he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. “I think I'm ready to go home now,” Clarke murmurs.

And Bellamy doesn't hesitate, as he draws back and takes her hand. “Then let's go.”

* * *

 

It's odd, returning to the human world, to a place where nothing has changed, though _everything_ has changed for Clarke. Her mother still isn't home when she gets back, so she takes Bellamy to her bedroom and asks him to stay, and he does.

“Are we...?” she asks him, lying in her bed, naked. _dating?_ But it seems like such a shallow word after everything they've been through and she doesn't know how to get it out of her mouth.

“Together,” Bellamy finishes, though it's not a question. “I don't care what you call it, _together_ is what I want.” She has her head on his chest, his heartbeat under her ear.

“Me too,” she whispers. So that's what they are.

When they return to school on Monday, all anyone talks about is how Holly's parents had come home from a town meeting to find the little girl asleep in her bed with no memory of where she'd been. Well, that, and the fact that, if the way Bellamy kisses Clarke between classes is any indication, he _does_ in fact date after all.

Clarke smirks at the things she hears whispered about how she managed to hook him, because none of them even come close to the truth. All of the rumors are far too ordinary next to the truth. She thinks, maybe, that's how it always is. A sleepy small town unaware of the fantastical court that lies only miles away. And now that she knows the truth, she doesn't know how to go back, to see this place the way she did before.

Her life has gotten a lot more complicated since Bellamy Blake became a part of it. But Clarke doesn't regret a second. She knows she's got a lot of stuff she needs to figure out, and a boyfriend who will never have a simple life, who will always be somewhere in between things, but that's okay. She doesn't have to know how to deal with it all immediately. They'll work it out- together. After all, they've got all the time in the world.

 


End file.
